


Swords of Solace

by MyraArend



Category: Strange Magic (2015)
Genre: Eventual Smut, Fantasy, Folklore, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-07-16 05:31:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 53,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7254337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyraArend/pseuds/MyraArend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Medieval England, a young woman does the unthinkable. Condemned by her God and pursued by her husband, she finds an unexpected ally in the King of the Fae.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

            It was a miserable night for an escape.

            Rain poured out of the sky, gushing like blood from a slit throat. Marianne could barely see ahead - icy droplets splashed over her face, propelled by the ferocious wind. There was no shelter to be found on the open grounds of her husband’s estate, but she clenched her teeth and rode on. How could she stop? Even in the midst of a storm, she could hear the barks of his hounds as they gained on her. The horse she’d stolen whined in terror at every strike of thunder, but she dug her heels in its ribs and pushed on. If they got caught, the animal would be killed for failing to bite or kick her. Marianne herself could hope for no such mercy.

            She was terrified of the dogs. Her husband had shown her once how easily they took down battle horses: _they bite right through the ankle,_ he’d bragged. Coming up with perverse warnings was among his favourite pastimes. But Marianne chased those thoughts away with a growl. She held onto the horse for dear life, even as the very ground under its hooves crumbled in the rain. They were losing speed, and if she did not do something about it… Marianne shouted at herself to stop imagining the punishment that awaited her, to focus. Nobody would help her – that much she knew. Her husband thrived on the fear he instilled in his subjects. They would trip over themselves to betray her, if it meant escaping his wrath. In this singularly insane venture, she was entirely alone.

            Panic surged through Marianne in violent waves. All rational thought evaporated and she succumbed to some ancient, savage instinct, until every capacity she possessed became solely focused on survival. She pulled on the horse’s reins and rode towards the forbidden forest that spanned the border of her husband’s estate. Even in her madness and despair, she somehow knew it was the only place her husband would never follow her. He was a cruel, revolting man, but he was also terribly superstitious. While most people simply avoided the forest, he became petrified with fear at its very mention. Perhaps he believed the tales of demons haunting it, or perhaps he knew them to be true – it mattered very little. Marianne would rather bed a thousand demons than go back to him. She braced herself against the gale and rode to the forest, cursing at the horse and pushing it as hard as she could. Her voice was barely audible over the howling wind, but the animal understood her meaning. Marianne did not dare look back. When she finally saw the outlines of trees through the thick curtain of rain, a jolt of exalted energy whipped through her. She ignored the ravaging pain in her womb and the freezing deluge that drenched her. Only a little longer, and she would be out of his clutches, just a bit longer… But at that precise moment, God exacted His own punishment. A strike of lightning hit the ground, deafening thunder followed, and the treacherous, cowardly horse reared violently, launching Marianne off.

            She landed painfully and choked on mud and rainwater as she struggled to force air back into her lugs. The horse bolted in the opposite direction, never to be seen again. Marianne cursed and struggled to her feet, noting with triumph that she could still walk, even if her ribs felt bruised and battered in the steel clutch of the corset. She gathered her stolen short sword and tried to run, but her feet sank into the sticky ground, boots so caked with mud that she could barely move. In a fit of despair, she ripped them off. The hounds were close: she could almost smell their rancid pelts. There was only one thing left to do – Marianne took as deep a breath as she could and sprinted towards the trees. She made herself forget the aches in her legs, the burning in her throat, the cramps in her belly, everything at all, except for the distance to her only hope of escape. With every step she took, the forest seemed to move further away. The hounds were at her heels, but their teeth had not sunk into her ankles just yet, so she persevered. The corset was squeezing her ribs so firmly that she could barely take in air. But she ran faster and faster, and screamed when it hurt too much, but kept going anyway. She was never going back, _never going back, never going back_ …

            At last, Marianne reached the edge of the field and darted into the forest. Ancient trees, crooked like disfigured corpses, creaked angrily around her, branches and thorns ripped at her dress, but she ran further still. She heard voices in the distance – her husband screeching her name. But he did not follow her. _No one enters the Haunted Forest and lives to tell the tale,_ he had said once. She had been right – he was not about to risk it for her sake. But his blasted hounds had no such reservations: they were still chasing and growling for her blood. In a fit of outraged bravery, Marianne planted her feet and lifted her sword. Three of them were after her, large and ferocious – her husband’s pride and joy. The first one jumped at her, teeth bared to rip at her face. In that split second, her limbs moved on their own accord and in some impossible stroke of luck, she impaled the beast on her blade. Hot blood gushed down her hands and brought feeling back to her frozen fingers. But there was no time to think – the second hound pounced. Its large paws collided with her chest and she lost balance on the slippery ground. She fell on her back and flailed violently until she felt the dog’s teeth sink into her shoulder.

            Marianne screamed in agony. Images flashed before her eyes – the dog dragging her out of the forest, delivering her to her husband like a fresh kill and getting rewarded with bits of her that he would chop off. _No!_ Something in her jolted awake, something unfamiliar, wild and brutal. She did the only thing she could think of and roared at the beast with all her might. A powerful rage shook the very core of her soul. She had not come so far to just to let herself be bested by her husband’s filthy animals! Before she knew it, her sword was lodged between the dog’s ribs all the way to the hilt. The beast let go of her shoulder and whined in pain. Marianne pushed it off and rolled onto her knees, bracing herself for the last dog. Having witnessed the death of its mates, it hesitated for just a moment before charging at her. That moment was all the time she needed – a final swing of the sword and the dog fell to the side, its throat slit.

            She could not tell how long she remained kneeling in the mud. She did not trust herself to stand up – not with her entire body trembling so violently. Rain battered the leaves and spilled on her, and her shoulder throbbed painfully, but she ignored all that. Instead, she started transfixed at the sight of blood on her hands. Blood that – _for once_ – was not her own! She wanted to weep, or laugh, or scream into the night, but she had no strength left. As the minutes dragged by, she slowly sank into the eerie silence of her own mind. Her vision began to blur. It was so blissfully quiet around her that even the sound of the storm seemed a distant, muffled hum. _Too distant._

            Marianne snapped into alertness, sword at the ready. She looked around, seeing nothing other than trees. It could not possibly be that quiet – certainly not quiet enough to hear the erratic pounding of her own heart. Something was very wrong.

_“Who are you?”_

            Marianne sprang back on her feet, sword raised. The voice had come from all around and nowhere in particular, resonating in her chest. She spun to look for a source, but found none.

“Get away from me!” she shrieked.

“Tell me who you are,” grated the voice, deep as thunder.

“Come out and face me first!” snarled Marianne.

            A branch crackled behind her and she turned in its direction. She knew it had been a grave mistake as soon as she felt the menacing presence behind her, close enough for hot breath to tickle her skin. She spun once again, but there was nothing there. The creature was toying with her!

“Enough, demon!” she spat, wild with fear and fury. “Show yourself, in the name of God, or go back to Hell and leave me alone!”

            Silence greeted her empty threat, followed by loud, clear footsteps. An ominous figure, cloaked in shadow, approached slowly from between the trees. Marianne gritted her teeth and fixed her eyes on it. As it stepped closer, its shape seemed to solidify the dark. It was a man, human in form, yet taller than any man she knew. He began to languidly circle her, forcing her to turn continuously in order to keep track of him. The hood of his cloak was pulled low over his face and she could barely make out his features.

“Here I am, _my lady_ ,” he sneered, low and sinister. “Now tell me why you run uninvited into my forest and slaughter living creatures amongst my trees.”

“Should I have let them rip me apart?” cried Marianne. “And who do you think you are! This forest belongs to no lord!”

“True,” he said. “It belongs to a king.”

            He pushed the hood off his face.

            Marianne’s blood turned to ice.

            Whoever he was, he was no human. Human eyes did not blaze in the darkness. Human teeth were not viciously sharp. Humans did not speak words straight into her head without moving their lips. Marianne did the only thing she could and raised her sword. If she were meant to die after all, she would go out fighting. But the demon did not attack her.           

“Why did you come here?” he asked.

            Marianne swallowed painfully, her throat dry and raw. She considered her options. Her marriage had taught her not to trust anyone. Funnily enough, the mere fact that she had managed to escape from it with her life seemed much more surreal than a demon living in a haunted forest. Perhaps it was all a dream, born out of panic and madness. She would no doubt wake up soon, back in her husband’s clutches. He would cut off her legs as retribution. Perhaps he already had.

“I need sanctuary,” she declared, resolute.

“Sanctuary?” exclaimed the creature. “Here? In this forest?”

            Marianne knew she ought to explain what she was running from and strike some kind of deal with the demon - all sinners did, according to her books. But her voice failed her.

“Those hounds,” asked the stranger, interrupting her thoughts, “Who sent them after you”

“My husband,” muttered Marianne.

            She wished bitterly that she had managed to prevent all that. Her husband always took some vile tonic before bedding her, claiming that it added vigour to their lovemaking. All it did was prolong her torment. Regardless, earlier in the night, Marianne had poured a hastily made sleeping draught into it, hoping it would knock him out cold long enough for her to slip into the night. It had only succeeded in getting him drowsy and confused. Nonetheless, opportunities were scarce in Marianne’s life and she took the only one she had.

“That blood on your legs,” said the stranger, voice low and sinister. “Is that your husband’s doing?”

            Marianne had forgotten about the blood that dripped hotly between her thighs, a sticky evidence of her blasphemous offence against God. She could not explain that to the stranger. She could barely face it herself – to take the life of an unborn babe was a sin beyond redemption, even if her husband had forced it inside her against her will. So when the demon asked, she left him to his assumptions.

“There is nothing for me back there,” she told him instead, and each word felt like a stab to the heart in its finality.

            The stranger observed her keenly. His bizarre seemed to glow with the sort of blue heat that sparked when a smith honed a blade. Standing as tall as she could, Marianne summoned her remaining strength and addressed him once more.

“What now, demon?” she demanded. “Will you leave me be?”

            The stranger seemed pensive for a moment, and Marianne’s fingers tightened around her sword’s hilt in preparation for one last hopeless battle…

“I will grant you sanctuary _,_ ” announced the demon, at last. “But… you must give me something in return.”

            Marianne felt a hot whirlwind of anger consume her once again. Of course he would want something, of course he would demand that she owed him, even if he had done nothing whatsoever to help her!

“I have nothing to give!” she snarled.

“No human has ever come to this forest and lived to tell the tale,” he reminded her. “But you could, if you chose to. All you need to do is pledge loyalty to me and agree to serve in my army.”

“What?” Marianne gasped in shock. She became increasingly convinced that whatever was happening was part of a twisted, lucid dreams, like the ones she had when she was feverish.

“Seven years in my army,” he repeated, sounding impatient. “And then you can leave for good. Or stay, if you choose.”

“Join the army of Hell?” shouted Marianne. She was truly losing her mind and could not seem to stop screaming. “I am not joining any army! Sanctuary or not, I still serve God! And you are… I don’t even know what you are! No! This is madness!”

“Will you quit raving about gods and hell!” bellowed the demon, startling her out of her skin. Marianne stared at him, silent and resolute. She had to fight. It was the only way – she had to fight and die. Sanctuary was one thing, but an army…

“Just so you know,” he added tersely, “I am not a demon.”

“What are you then?” she challenged.

“I am Bhaltair, King of the Fae of Boglach Dorch. This forest is a threshold to my kingdom.”

“King of the Fae?” gasped Marianne. “The fairies - the good folk? You’re... you’re insane!”

            For a moment, the demon seemed like he was about to lose his temper, but the next words that came out of his mouth were spoken softly.

“You talk of gods and demons as if they walk among you, but call me insane for telling the truth?”

            She ought to challenge him. She ought to plunge her sword into his black heart and…

“How old are you?” he asked, baffling her.

“I’ll be sixteen in three days,” she snapped.

            The demon hissed something harshly, but Marianne could not make out the words. He then stopped pacing and faced her, rising to his full, intimidating height.

“I will give you three days,” he said. “When the moon rises on your birthday, I will come back and make my offer again. If you accept, you may come with me to Boglach Dorch, live safely among my people and train in my army. If you refuse, the forest will treat you the way it treats all intruders.”

“So I will be killed?”

“No. You will be allowed to walk out alive. But you will forget you were ever here, and you will live the rest of your life fearing this place, like all mortals. You will never set foot among these trees again.”

            Marianne struggled to believe a word he said. She was also struggling to remain upright, which was a more imminent problem. The demon must have noticed her swaying unsteadily on her feet.

“Moonrise on your birthday,” he repeated in a tone that precluded any further discussion. “Stay in the forest until then. Look for shelter down the path behind me.”

            He then tossed something at her feet. Marianne did not see what – she was keeping his eyes fixed on his.

“It can cut through metal,” he said, fangs flashing in a dangerous grin.

            And then he was gone.

            Marianne looked around with her sword held high, but he was nowhere to be seen. After a little while, as certain as it was possible to be that she was alone, she bent down with a wince and picked up the object he had thrown to her. It was a small, curved dagger, in a simple leather sheath. Marianne clutched it tightly in her hand and took in her surroundings.

            She was in the middle of a small clearing, with dead hounds prostrate at her feet. The rain, which had apparently stopped for the demon’s sake, started again with a vengeance. Everywhere she looked, she saw more eerie trees, their roots and branches tangled into an impenetrable net. How she had ever made it thus far without tripping, she could not tell. The skirts of her dress were sodden and torn to shreds, so she pulled at them and easily ripped off a mass of fabric to free up her lower legs. Blood was trickling profusely down to her ankles.

            That sight was the jolt of awareness that Marianne so badly needed. Her body was on the verge of collapse, and she had to get out of the storm. Hadn’t the stranger said something about a path to shelter? Looking around, Marianne noted a point in the clearing where the trees separated ever so slightly, forming a tiny tunnel. It looked just as macabre as everything else around her, but she would take what she could.

Marianne had to walk hunched to avoid the spiky branches, but somehow emerged on the other end with no further scratches. A tiny light flickered before her and she followed it to something that resembled a mound with a door. Marianne blinked water out of her eyes and approached carefully, drawn to the warm glow that came through a window-like opening at the side of the structure. The door turned out to be a thick curtain of vine-like branches that parted easily at her touch. They felt smooth and warm, and for a moment she was convinced that they were living things, perhaps the limbs of some fantastical forest creature that allowed her to seek shelter under its hide.

            The inside of the mound was warm and dry. Marianne’s bare feet sank into soft moss. A shallow hole in the ground was filled with glowing embers, as if a fire had been blazing not too long ago. They spread divine heat without burning the moss or producing any kind of smoke, but Marianne chose not to question their mechanics for the moment – her attention was drawn to a pile of fur pelts thrown haphazardly nearby in a makeshift bed. She found them to be dry and clean, and quietly rejoiced. Wanting nothing more than rest, Marianne removed her sodden dress and cloak. The chemise she wore underneath was soaked through, but large patches of it looked mostly clean. She tore off several strips of fabric and used them to clean the wound on her shoulder and bandage it as best as she could. The animal’s fangs had pierced her skin, but there was little she could do about it out in the forest, except hope for the best. The remainder of the fabric she used to scrub away mud and grime off her face and body. The act forced her blood – or what was left of it – to move through her veins and she felt a little warmer by the time she was finished. She only stopped when there was no clean fabric left. Or rather, what was left was molded to her chest by the corset.

            Marianne cursed in defeat. The monstrosity she wore was a wedding present from her husband, forged to order. It was made of curved iron plates, held together firmly by strings of sturdy metal wire. She was only allowed to take it off when she bathed, and even then, her would always make sure that it was put back in place. The contraption was tightened by two gears at the small of her back, locked in place with a latch that could only be opened with his unique key. Each and every day, he took great pleasure in tightening the blasted thing to the point where Marianne could barely whisper without gasping for breath. And when he was angry… She recalled the dreadful night when he’d burst into her chambers without warning, ripped off her clothes and roared at her to give him a son. He had used her body without a shred of mercy while twisting the gears at her back and pulling the corset tighter than ever before. The joint pain of his assault between her legs and the metal pulverising her ribs had made her pray for death. Even after she’d eventually lost consciousness, he had continued. And now, her husband had found a way to once again remind her that she belonged to him. Without his key, the latch wouldn’t budge. Still, Marianne struggled with it, but the harder she tried, the more stubbornly the contraption seemed to close around her. Exhausted, she knelt and assumed the practiced, helpless position in which she felt the least amount of pain. Despair threatened to overwhelm her and angry tears burned in her eyes. The beastly ghoul, whom she had vowed before God to honour and cherish in sickness and in health, had defeated her yet again. Even if she ran to the ends of the world, he would always be there, always with her, in the vile corset or in her nightmares. _He would always find a way._

           Suddenly, through a haze of tears, Marianne’s eyes focused on the short, curved dagger the demon had given her. It lay abandoned on the ground, next to her sword. She could barely remember what the creature had said during the dreamlike meeting, but at least the curious weapon was small enough for her to try it on the latch. Marianne picked it up and unsheathed it, taking a moment to admire the unusual material. The handle appeared to be made of bone, light-grey and perfectly smooth. The blade itself was dark, almost black, but with a blue-green sheen. It felt like glass to the touch. Such a dagger seemed far too elegant in its make to not be brittle. Marianne decided to try it anyway, because she had no other choice and was just about hysterical enough to accept that a glass blade could cut through iron. She carefully placed the sharp tip against one of the tight hoops of wire that held the corset together and applied pressure.

           The hoop snapped.

           Marianne was not sure she was seeing clearly and tried the next one. It snapped too, cut clean through the middle. _Not possible!_ For months she had fought with that corset. Nothing had ever worked, nothing! And now, a delicate little knife made of glass and bone was going through hoop after hoop as if they were made of thread! Marianne was ecstatic. It took her a while, but eventually, she managed to sever all the wire that connected two large plates on her left side. She dragged the knife impatiently through the metal on her right, not caring if she cut herself in the process. Finally, the last wire snapped open, the corset split in two and fell heavily to the ground.

           Marianne wept.

           Not with tears of fear, sadness, or despair – she had run out of those in the first two weeks of her marriage. They were tears born out of some strange sense of elation that felt too big to remain confined in her chest. She took her first deep breath, gently stretched her arms over her head and bent from side to side to test the bones and muscles that had been crushed in a metal prison for a year. She then picked up the corset, parted the branches at the doorway and hurled it outside in the rain. Thus unburdened, Marianne wrapped herself in one of the fur pelts and lay down. Nestled near the warm embers, with her sword by her side and the demon’s dagger clutched in her hand, she allowed herself for the first time that night to genuinely believe the success of her escape. Thoughts of the day to come could torture her another time, and the ever-present fear of her husband would still be there when she woke up. For the moment, she closed her eyes and took deep breaths to exercise her weakened lungs. Before long, she was asleep.

 

 

*****

 

 

“She can’t be human!” bellowed Bhaltair.

“Is that right?” Griselda responded calmly, not even bothering to lift her eyes from the scroll she is writing.

“No human has entered the forest in centuries! They can’t! We made sure they’d never even try!”

“And yet, a human just did.”

“She can’t be!” he shouted again.

            Griselda looked up from her papers and fixed her son with a practiced glare that was reserved for the least bright among her apprentices.

“She _is_. I saw her through the embers. Then I had our best Scryer check, for good measure.”

“Then how could she have possibly crossed the threshold?”

“I don’t know. She must have been very determined.”

            Her son gave up pacing and sat down heavily in a chair near her desk. His eyebrows were drawn in a tight, disbelieving frown.

“She took down three hounds, mother! Slaughtered them! She’s a wisp of a thing - I'd wager she's never held a sword before.”

“Good for her,” said Griselda, the zeal in her tone far from subtle.

“Her husband sent dogs after her,” muttered the king under his breath. Griselda said nothing. It was obvious from the young woman’s body that her husband had done much more.

“Do you think…”

             Bhaltair paused, uncertain. It was very unusual to see the fearsome king of Boglach Dorch so obviously rattled. The strange woman had shaken something in him - Griselda herself had seen him physically shudder after their brief meeting. He'd flown to the forest in a mad frenzy as soon as the threshold had been breeched and had remained on edge ever since. Still, Griselda did not intend to pass up a rare opportunity to scold her son.

“I think you are a fool for what you said to her,” she declared. “Forcing her to join your army? That was the best you could come up with?”

“I gave her a choice!” he snapped.

“What you gave her was not really a choice, and you know it! Forget all the reasons why she was able to cross the threshold. What’s more important is why she chose to.”

            The king pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.

“Could she…” he started. “Do you think she was so terrified of whoever was chasing her that her fear overpowered the glamour?”

“Exactly,” confirmed Griselda. “So you’d better be cautious when you’re explaining to her that she will be the first human to ever join the Fae army.”

            The king slammed his hands on his knees.

“What else could I have done?” he snarled. “She wouldn’t let me go near her! She was… she’d been injured.”

            Griselda knew plenty about the woman’s injuries. She had observed her carefully through the embers, at her son’s frantic request. The dog bite needed proper cleaning, but that was the least of her worries. For a human with crude materials and little skill, the lass had managed to brew a half-decent extraction potion. Unfortunately, she had not known to take it in small doses over several days and as a result, the force of the ejection had nearly killed her. How she had even reached the forest was beyond comprehension. But her body would recover from the blood loss, the hand-shaped bruises on her arms and neck would fade and the grotesquely cinched curve of her waist would fill in after a while. Griselda was well aware of how adept human bodies were at masking injuries that the mind could never heal from. Regardless, she revealed nothing to her son. It was none of his damn business, unless the young woman chose to make it so.

“I’ll make sure she doesn’t die of her injuries before her birthday,” said Griselda. “The goblins will look out for her in the forest.”

            The king nodded distractedly, his thoughts far away. His mother decided it was best to leave him alone for the moment and go about making sure that his newest recruit would stay alive long enough to enlist. Besides, she was eager to meet the strange woman in person. No amount of scrying could ever match a good Healer’s ability to extract knowledge from touch, and Griselda was the most gifted Healer of her time. If there was even a single non-human bone in the girl’s body, she would know.

 

 

***** 

 

 

            Marianne sat among the branches of a tree and watched the sun set on her sixteenth birthday. She imagined being someone else. It was a game she had often played as a child, pretending to be everything from a powerful warlock to a valiant knight. But, this time, as she watched light give way to darkness, Marianne imagined being a shepherd. She pictured a life of solitude: long days in open fields, warm nights under star-spangled skies, and no living soul for miles. But most of all, she imagined a life in which she did not dread the sunset. Even as her eyes filled with its fiery glow, an icy fist of dread closed around her heart. The sunset was a harbinger of the turmoil that often accompanied her nights and three days of respite from the marriage bed were not enough to erode a year’s worth of memories.

            The forest was calm and quiet around her, blissfully free of other humans. Her entire life, Marianne had been shadowed faithfully by chaperones, servants and guards, always in close enough proximity to watching over her. Yet, in the forest, there was no one. There was not even birdsong – the only sounds came from the wind rustling in the leaves, the bubbling of a stream over smooth stones, and her own isolated footsteps. It was uncanny how much she enjoyed the solitude. Amongst the woods, without supervision, she ran barefoot and practiced swinging her sword. She remembered shockingly little of her mother’s swordplay lessons, but the weight of the blade in her hand felt comforting.

            The forest had been kind to her in the past three days. On the very first morning after her escape, she had woken up parched, in a great deal of pain and with little memory of where she was. After establishing that her surroundings were indeed real, and not a product of a fever dream, she’d managed to fashion a dress of sorts out of her cloak and had set out in search of clean water. That was when she had first started thinking that the forest was changing around her. Two narrow but clear paths had appeared outside the mound at some point in the night. One led to a stream of glorious, cold water. Another took her to a small hot spring, nestled among smooth, white rocks. Marianne went to it a few times each day, if only to bask in the simple pleasure of being clean and warm. She imagined that the heat of its waters was restoring her body and healing her wounds. Indeed, the bite on her shoulder stopped hurting and most of the bruising cleared away within the first day. But more importantly, with each moment, Marianne felt a renewed - if tentative - sense of vigour. She fed on wild raspberries and fat, buttery parasol mushrooms, roasted lovingly over the ever-glowing embers in her mound.

            Still, the absence of a living soul meant that there was no one to distract her from her thoughts. As her birthday approached, they only turned darker. Marianne’s anger and bitterness grew and festered into some ugly, contorted emotion that she could not recognise or make peace with. Visions of revenge, each more depraved than the next, plagued her waking hours and pumped venom into her soul. At night, before she fell into exhausted, dreamless sleep, she sometimes considered seeking solace in prayer. But that would mean thinking of God, of His holy laws – which she had broken – and of the sorry state of her faith. That way madness lay. Instead, Marianne reflected on the strange demon’s ridiculous offer. No, not demon - _Fae_. King of the Fae, in fact! Marianne vaguely remembered her mother telling her stories of the Fae when she was a child. Lady Yoanna had died over ten years ago, and Marianne’s memories of those days were hazy. What she recalled was that the stories had always been whispered in secret, well away from her devout father’s ears. Why Lady Yoanna had cared about hiding such things from him was beyond Marianne’s comprehension - they had been nothing other than fancies made up for the sake of children... hadn’t they?

            The last rays of the setting sun slid over the forest. A couple of stars made their appearance in the darkening sky and soon enough, a large, golden moon peaked from behind the horizon. Marianne sighed and slid down from the branch she occupied. As she suspected, she was being awaited: the demon had appeared soundlessly at some point, and was casually leaning against a tree. He was not cloaked and Marianne’s eyes were drawn to the sharp, almost severe lines of his face. As she moved closer, she wondered how she could have ever mistaken him for a human. The ashen-grey of his pale skin was in stark contrast with his armour – layers of black material unfolded upon each other like leaves and covered his unnaturally tall form from neck to toe. Marianne stood before him, cautiously keeping her distance, and looked up to meet his eyes. They were not glowing – thankfully – and she wondered whether he could control that and was hiding it for her sake.

“Happy birthday,” he said. Marianne was not sure how to respond and simply nodded in greeting.

“I see you still have my dagger.”

            His eyes darted to the small blade she had tucked into her makeshift belt. She had developed a peculiar attachment to the strange object and always kept it close, like a talisman. Once, she had kept a rosary for the same purpose and the thought made her want to laugh and weep at the same time. For a while, neither of them spoke. Marianne was painfully aware of time dragging sluggishly by while they regarded each other and wondered whether he could hear her racing heartbeat.

“Let us take a walk,” said the demon, breaking the heavy silence. “Pacing always seems to help clear one’s thoughts, don’t you think?”

            Marianne hesitated, but her curiosity outweighed her reticence. For one thing, the strange creature before her appeared to be unarmed, while she still had her sword faithfully by her side. He might have an assortment of tricks and sorcery, but at least she did not feel completely defenceless in his presence. He led the way along a narrow path that she had not traversed before, which seemed to widen before her eyes to accommodate them both.

“What is this place?” asked Marianne, astonished.

“This forest is what we call _Tairseach_ , a threshold,” he explained. “Thousands of years ago, the Realm of Old – our original home – was plagued by war. The Fae fought against the Tengri and had been for centuries, long after both sides had forgotten the original reason for the fight. Eventually, the Fae were forced to retreat to the Human Realm in order to cut their losses. And so, for hundreds of years, we lived alongside humans. We used our powers to protect the mortals, taught them our healing arts, and gave them our laws. With the aid of the Fae, their kingdoms flourished and both our kinds enjoyed peace and prosperity. But then, after a time, the humans grew bored with peace. Wars broke out among their kingdoms – for lands, power, riches… The Fae did not want to get involved in any of it, and refused to take sides. That was their grave mistake. Before long, the humans began to blame the Fae for their misfortune. Hatred built and built, until one day, a group of human warriors kidnapped one hundred Fae children and burned them to death with molten iron. They believed it to be a sacrifice of some kind, meant to appease one god of war or another. Needless to say, the Fae were enraged. They decided that the time for peace was over and prepared to go to war with the humans and wipe them out completely.”

“So why didn’t they?” asked Marianne. She would have done it, in their place.

“Well, many humans condemned the act of their brethren. They knew they stood no chance against the combined power of the Fae and begged for mercy. But the real reason why the humans were spared was the great Tengri Healer, Queen Pagganeé.”

            He paused for a moment, staring at the ground before him. Marianne waited quietly, enthralled by the soothing sound of his low, lilting voice.

“You see,” he continued. “Healers in the Realm of Old are the most revered of all creatures. No king or queen would ever dare refuse a Healer’s demand – their powers are sacrosanct and their word is absolute. Queen Pagganeé was the most powerful Healer of her time. And even though the Tengri had been at war with the Fae for so long, the humans’ actions were seen as appalling and unforgivable. On their behalf, Queen Pagganeé came to the Fae with a plan to punish the humans, a plan that was far more cruel than killing them off would have been.”

“What did she do?”

“She put an end to the ancient war between our factions. And instead of simply eradicating the humans, the Fae did the next best thing: they returned to the Realm of Old for good. Without the Fae’s powers, human kingdoms that had once prospered eventually succumbed to decay and ruin. All that was left behind from the time of the Fae was a handful of thresholds between the Realms, scattered throughout the world. The Fae used powerful glamour spells to hide them, so that no human could cross.”

“This is why people are afraid of the forest,” said Marianne, finally understanding the bizarre superstition.

“Exactly. The closer a human comes to a _Tairseach_ , the more powerful their fear. It sets upon them like a surge of panic and they usually run in the opposite direction. And even if they do somehow manage to cross, they are immediately overwhelmed by an urge to run away. Once they do, they forget all about the experience and their fear returns.”

“But if the Fae wanted to disappear, why would they bother leaving these… thresholds?” asked Marianne.

“I don’t know,” replied the king. “No one knows for sure – it was so long ago that the best we can do is speculate. Perhaps some Fae missed the human friends they had left behind, or perhaps they wanted to watch the humans suffer. Either way, the Fae no longer interfere with human affairs – it is the one sacred law that binds us all. Except in your case, since you crossed one of our thresholds of your own volition.”

            Marianne’s confusion only increased, and she burned to ask him the obvious question: if humans were meant to fear the forest and never enter it, why had she been able to do it so easily? But that would have brought on further discussion about the night of her escape, and she was adamant to avoid that.

“What about God?” she asked instead.

“God? Which god, exactly? You humans have so many.” The shadow of a smirk playing on the king's thin lips. “And before you lunch into another rant and call me a demon again, let me just say this: the Fae don’t worship any particular god. We uphold our own laws and change them when a need arises.”

            The thought was radical enough to give Marianne a chill. She had been raised to serve one God, pray to one God and follow the laws of one God, above all else. A world without God was a world of heresy, of chaos and pure evil. Out of instinct, she reached for her rosary, but then remembered that she no longer had one. In fact, all her worldly possessions amounted to a ruined cloak and a stolen sword. Marianne stopped dead in her tracks. Another sobering thought shook her, like a lash from a whip across her skin: _she had no one_. She had been too preoccupied with keeping herself alive to truly accept the consequences of her actions. All that awaited her outside the forest was a father who would never allow a shamed, ruined daughter back into his home and a husband who would find her and torture her until all that remained was a warped, broken thing to be discarded.

“Who does that army of yours fight then?” Marianne asked coarsely, swallowing tears.

The demon’s eyes flashed with that eerie blue glow, sending chills down her spine.

“Why do you ask?”

            Although she had dreaded the moment he would come back to demand her answer, Marianne was simply not capable of producing the words to convey the crippling, unadulterated fear that assaulted her when she thought of leaving the forest. In the end, her decision was fuelled by anger, despair and by the same ancient survival instinct that had told her to run to the forest in the first place.

“I accept the offer to join your army,” she said with an air of nobility that rang hollow, even to her own ears. “But I want one thing from you, just one. I want to be allowed to see my sister. From afar, if I must, but I want to be able to check on her every once in a while. That’s all – grant me that, and you’ll have my loyalty, and my sword… such as it is.”

            Kind Bhaltair of the Fae appeared – dare she imagine – taken aback by her impassioned demand. But Marianne willed herself to stand tall and firmly bear his scrutiny. She held no illusions that her sister’s fate would be any different from her own, if left to their father’s care. Her only consolation was that six-year-old Dawn had a good number of years before her first moon’s blood brandished her as fair game for the Rolands of the world.

            The king of the Fae directed the full force of his unblinking stare at Marianne. She imagined raging fires could be reduced to ash under its power. For a moment, she worried she might have overstepped some implicit chain of command in her demands, but it was difficult to make herself care, or indeed to feel anything other than sorrow. At last, the king proclaimed his decision.

“I accept your terms.”

            A large, long-fingered hand extended towards her, clad in the same black material as his armor. Marianne stared at it in confusion, then wrapped her own fingers around his palm and shook it. A prickling sensation teased at her fingertips, but it was gone as soon as it had appeared.

           Marianne did not feel as though she was truly present for the events that followed. The king led her through the forest, saying something about contracts and healers, but she failed to comprehend his words. Walking in a trance, she followed him to an arching stone gateway that seemed older than the trees themselves. In her very bones, Marianne felt that in the act of walking underneath it, she had crossed some ephemeral barrier - between realms, or, more likely, between sanity and madness. It was odd, funny even, that the timid Lady Marianne, firstborn daughter to the Earl of Lincoln, wife of the Earl of Northumberland, had hesitated so very little before leaving all she knew behind.


	2. Chapter 2

            Dawn was angry.

            She did not want to be angry, and it was unbecoming for a young lady to raise her voice or throw tantrums, but she was so very bored! For several long, dull days she had been confined indoors. Her nursemaid would not tell her why, nobody would play with her, and her father seemed to have forgotten about her altogether. And worst of all, she was not allowed to go outside, or see anyone, and she desperately wanted to show Sunny how well she could ride her hobbyhorse.

“When can I see Sunny?” she asked her nursemaid politely.

“Young Samuell is busy with Father Roger,” said the woman. Dawn could tell from her tone that she did not like young Samuell very much at all.

“I practiced riding my hobbyhorse, to show him,” explained Dawn patiently. “He told me I was too little to ride, but I am not! I should like to show him that I can ride.”

“Mayhap when Father Roger comes to visit us next, if your father allows.”

            The nursemaid said _if your father allows_ at least ten times each day. Dawn clenched her little fists. She had been told not to make trouble, and had been playing quietly with her wooden knight for hours now, trying her best to keep busy. She considered asking the nursemaid for a story, but the woman spoke in such a dull voice that the mere thought seemed dreary. In fact, all the gruff nursemaid ever did was embroider in her chair, complain endlessly about the cold, and repeat over and over how God punished wicked children who made trouble. Dawn sighed and dropped the wooden knight. She dearly missed her sister. Marianne was older, and had a real horse of her own, and always told her the best stories. She did not just speak the words – she acted them out, and pretended to be a bear in the forest, or a lost princess, or an evil hag. And when they went to Mass, Father Roger, spoke at great length about things Dawn could not understand, but Marianne always explained, afterwards. Dawn loved to listen about the Three Kings and the magic star of Bethlehem, and about Saint Katherine's gentle words of wisdom. But most of all, Dawn loved the story of Saint George and the dragon. It was told time and time again, and each time Marianne made it better. Her big sister would growl in a scary voice and pretend to spit fire, and then she would rise bravely like the saint, the fire poker in her hand would turn into a divine spear, and she would strike true and slay the dragon.

            Without Marianne in her life, Dawn had very little to look forward to. She could not wait to see Sunny. Father Roger, the chaplain, came to the manor house every few days to speak with Dawn’s father, and his acolyte Samuell spent the time playing with Dawn. He was ten years old, and was learning to be a priest. On his last visit, Sunny had shown Dawn the ink stains on his hands and the small, round callous on his middle finger, and had bragged about Father Roger letting him copy from the Holy Bible. He had even made a little present for her by carving her name on the side of her hobbyhorse. Aside from Father Roger, the only people she had ever seen read from books were her father and Marianne. But Sunny could also write, and he had written out her very own name! Dawn had rejoiced and rewarded him with a kiss on the cheek.

            And now, the two people she missed most in the world were somewhere far away, and she was alone with her hateful nursemaid. Suddenly, Dawn wanted to make as much trouble as she possibly could. She decided that she was too bored to remain in her room for another minute.

“I am going to ride my horse,” she declared and bolted out the door with the toy before her nursemaid could say _if your father allows_.

            _I am not making trouble_ , Dawn thought. _I am not leaving the house, and I am not even that far from the nursery._ She decided to see if she could ride without stopping all the way along the narrow corridor. Sunny would not think her too little if she could! But after she realised that it was far too easy, she decided instead ride up the stairs – that would be truly impressive! Ignoring her nursemaid’s sour voice, Dawn ran ahead and conquered the stairs one at a time, her heart pounding in excitement. She could not wait to grow big enough for a real horse, and Marianne had promised to teach her how to ride. Suddenly, a wonderful idea struck Dawn: she ought to ask her father to take her to Marianne’s new home! She would ride her hobbyhorse to his cabinet, where he was always spending time with other lords, and she would ask him very humbly if he could take her to Marianne. And perhaps, by the time they returned, she would have grown tall enough to ride on her own. How jealous Sunny would be if she went all the way to Northumberland and came back not only taller than him, but riding on her very own horse!

            Determined in her new venture, Dawn reached the cabinet in a mad rush. She dismounted elegantly and petted the wooden mane of her hobbyhorse, like she had seen Marianne do, then stepped slowly up to the door. It was cracked open, but Dawn did not dare go inside – it would be unseemly for a lady to enter a lord's private dwelling uninvited. Dawn knocked quietly and waited, but when nobody came out, she pushed the door open and peered inside. The cabinet was empty, except for a servant boy who was piling logs into the hearth. Perhaps he had not heard her knock? Dawn opened her mouth to ask after her father, but was interrupted by the echoes of a dreadful commotion from the other end of the corridor. Someone was yelling so loudly and angrily that she got terribly frightened, clutched her hobbyhorse, darted inside the cabinet and took cover underneath one of the benches near the wall. A blanket was hanging over the edge of the seat and she huddled behind it, peaking around to see what went on. Not a moment later, someone shoved the door open and stomped into the room, causing the frightened servant to scamper off. When Dawn recognised the man, she almost squealed in excitement: it was Roland, her brother-in-law! _I ought to run to him and ask after Marianne_ , she thought. _What if Marianne is here with him, and is looking for me now, in the nursery?_ But a moment later, Dawn’s father entered the cabinet and shut the door behind him. He appeared to be ill: his face was gaunt, with deep, dark circles under the eyes, and he seemed very troubled. The sight of him in such an awful state scared Dawn so much that she did not dare move from her hiding spot. She tried to stay very quiet and watched the two men as they stood by the fire, warming their hands. The servant boy returned after a little while, carrying two steaming tankards of ale. Roland snatched one and drank deeply, but Dawn’s father paid no heed and stared into the hearth.

“I am at a loss,” he muttered. “I cannot believe it.”

“It came as a shock to me as well,” said Roland, his voice as gentle and polite as Dawn remembered. “Naturally, I came to you first, Lord Henry. I prayed all the way here that I would find her in your home, safe and sound. But to know that you have not even heard of the horrible events that transpired brings me more sorrow than I can express!”

“Lord Roland, please forgive me, but I know not how to explain…”

“My good lord, there is no need to explain anything. You are without blame. Though I did wonder where such deviant influences could have come from…”

            Dawn’s father seemed angry for a moment.

“You did not think that I would have raised my daughter to break her vows!” he cried.

“No, of course not!” gasped Roland. “I never for a moment doubted my wife’s upbringing, my good lord. But I was sickened with fear! A noble lady, all on her own, with bandits and cutthroats on the roads... I do not dare to think how much danger she could be in! Unless of course - But no, it is not possible, and I shall not offend you further by speaking of it.”

“Speaking of what? I bid you, good lord, say what is on your mind.”

“Forgive me, Lord Henry.” Roland bowed his head gallantly. “I fear that as her husband, I cannot help but imagine the worst. I worry that… she might have had help.”

“What sort of help?” asked Dawn’s father, a dangerous edge to his voice.

“Perhaps from a friend? Or… perhaps a lover.”

“Adultery?!” exclaimed Lord Henry.

“Deep in my heart, I want to believe that she would not betray me so. But what other reason could she possibly have to leave the safety of her home, with the Scots raiding and pillaging? Perhaps I should have suspected something was amiss – she seemed discontent when His Majesty ordered me to remain on my estate and defend the borders against the Bruce. But I believed it to be nothing other than a loving wife’s worry for her husband’s safety.”

            Roland paused and ran his hands through his hair. The light of the fire made it shine like a golden halo, and Dawn thought that he looked as beautiful as an Angel from Heaven.

“There is more, my good lord.” Roland’s voice was trembling. “My Marianne… Oh, God give me strength, my poor Marianne is with child!”

            The colour drained from Lord Henry’s face and he lost his bearing, collapsing heavily into the nearest chair.

“Lord have mercy!” he gasped.

“My physician had just told me the news,” continued Roland gravely. “I was so delighted! To finally have a child, after such a long time... I could hardly contain my joy as I ran to her. But when I went to her chambers, she was long gone.”

“Surely someone saw her! Had she not a lady’s maid?”

“Of course – I questioned the girl immediately. She said her mistress had retired to her bedroom early, complaining of a headache. A stable boy also saw her. She was saddling up a horse and he went to offer aid, but she ordered him away. The lad did not dare oppose the lady of the house. By the time I found out what had transpired, it was too late.”

“Why would she run away?” whispered Lord Henry.

“I could not begin to imagine,” sighed Roland. “She had free reign of our home. I made sure she had everything she needed to be comfortable and content. But above all, I thought the news of a child would have brought her nothing but bliss! She is sixteen, after all. My own sister, at fifteen, is already expecting her second. For her to run away thus… My lord, do you think it means the child is not my own?”

            Dawn’s father leaned forward and rested his forehead in the palm of his hand. A heavy silence stretched between the two men. After a little while, Roland crossed his arms and faced the fire, his back to Dawn.

“My dear lord,” he began, gently. “As great as my concern is for the wellbeing of my wife and child – or what I dearly hope is my child – I am now put in an incredibly difficult situation. My marriage to Marianne rests at the very heart of our agreement. Things being what they are, I cannot help but worry about the future.”

            Lord Henry’s face grew even paler.

“My lord, please rest assured that my family is still loyal to yours! I condemn my daughter’s actions, make no mistake about that!”

“I would never question your loyalty, Lord Henry. But you must understand my predicament. Without a wife and children to carry my name, the union of our families is meaningless. There is only so much that I can do for an agreement which has left me completely bereft.”

“We will find Marianne! I assure you!”

“But what if we don’t? Or what if we find her dead? Part of me wishes that she does have someone to protect her – our marriage would be truly void if she did, but at least she would be safe.”

“It has only been a few days – she could not have gone far, not even on horseback.”

“Let us hope so. Because if we don’t find her, though it would break my heart, I will be forced to take another wife. The Earl of Arundel has two unwed daughters and a great interest in aiding me against the Scots.”

“But what about our agreement!” gasped Dawn’s father. “With the floods this summer and the poor harvest, my tenants would struggle to survive the winter without your support!”

            Roland began to pace slowly around the room, deep in thought.

“There is one solution,” he said after a quiet moment. “You do have another daughter.”

            Lord Henry rose from his chair, a sullen look on his face.

“My dear lord, Dawn is simply too young give you children! She won’t be of age for another six years! And besides, she is to be sent to Godstow Abbey.”

“The Benedictine sisters?” Roland cried, then continued more agreeably. “What an honour, to have a daughter in the service of our Lord! May I ask why you elected to make a nun out of her?”

            Dawn’s father looked away from Roland. He seemed unwilling to say much on the matter.

“It was… my late wife’s wish. She miscarried twice after Marianne was born, and vowed that her next surviving child would enter into God’s service. On her deathbed, I made a promise to honour her wish.”

“May Lady Yoanna rest in peace,” sighed Roland. “I can see plainly that you are also in an impossible situation, my lord. It saddens me, but it would appear that without Marianne, we have no other option but to dissolve our agreement.”

“Please, Lord Roland, be not so hasty!” begged Dawn’s father. “I will provide whatever help I can. I will lend you my best hunting dogs and any men I can spare. We will bring her back, I swear!”

“And if we fail? Or worse, if she has sinned with another man?”

“Marianne has already committed a terrible offence by running away from her husband,” declared Lord Henry solemnly. “She will find no shelter under my roof. You are her lord and master, by the laws of our land and by the laws of the Almighty God. Let us wait until spring. If we find her, it will be for you to decide what to do with her. If we fail, then I bid you, let me honour our agreement by offering you Dawn’s hand in marriage. She will be your wife, as soon as she is of age.”

“But what about your late wife’s wishes?” asked Roland.

“I pray Yoanna will forgive me, but my daughters will do their duty, one way or another.”

“Thank you, Lord Henry.” Roland bowed his head humbly. “I knew I could rely on you to do the right thing.”

            The men continued to speak for a few more minutes, then eventually got up and left the cabinet. Dawn waited for a moment to make sure no one else would enter and then bolted out, running to her nursery as fast as she could. Not everything she had heard made sense to her, but she understood enough – Roland and her father thought that her sister was an _adulteress_. Dawn did not know for sure what that meant, but she knew that it was a mortal sin. Her nursemaid had told her all about it – adulterers would feel the mighty wrath of God’s judgment, and would perish in the fires of Hell. Still, that was not what Dawn feared the most. _She will find no shelter under my roof_ , her father had said. Dawn could not understand how he could be so cruel – Marianne was lost somewhere, all alone, with bears, and hags, and Scots waiting to hurt her, and her father would not let her return home? Sadness burned in Dawn’s chest, so heavy that she could barely breathe. She did not speak to anyone for the rest of the day, and did not eat a bite over dinner. No one seemed to notice. Her father was busy with Lord Roland and did not pay any attention to her. The rest of the household had grown quiet, and all the servants were whispering to each other in corners when they thought no one was watching. The word _adulteress_ echoed through the house, spoken over and over in hushed tones like some kind of curse. That night, awake in her bed, Dawn prayed through tears that Saint George would come to Marianne’s aid and protect her with his mighty spear, wherever she might be.

 

 

* * * 

 

 

            A glorious full moon cast a silver veil over Boglach Dorch. It was a beautiful night, and a gentle breeze rustled in the leaves, laden with fragrances of night lilies, moon-petals, and primroses.

            Bhaltair saw none of it.

            He was flying towards the northern border of his kingdom as fast as his wings would carry him. There was far too much on his mind, and no time at all for frivolities. A strange sense of foreboding was uncoiling in his gut, growing more fierce the further he went from the Keep, until not even the pure joy of moonlight caressing his wings could soothe his nerves. Bhaltair dove downwards, picked up speed and continued on, his powerful wings carrying him rapidly over the woods that spanned the bog. He could just about make out the river at the northern edge of his kingdom. Beyond it, a vast mountain range stretched in the distance, with peaks that jutted out from a shroud of mist like jagged teeth. Tengri territory.

            Bhaltair approached the river and followed its bends and curves until he located his destination. A small camp had been set up near the riverbank, no more than eight or nine tents surrounding a fire. He glided towards its light. Several soldiers were sitting around it and jumped to attention when they spotted him, weapons at the ready. Once they recognised their king, they sheathed their swords and saluted as he landed before them. One of the soldiers, a young sergeant with large, wide-set eyes, took a step forward.

“Thank you for coming so quickly, Sire!” she said.

“I hope this is as important as your message made it seem, sergeant,” said Bhaltair, impatient. He could not recall her name. His anxiousness showed no sign of waning and an inexplicable desire to fly back home immediately burned under his skin.

“I regret wasting your time, but I didn’t know what else to do,” said the sergeant. “There is never any trouble along the border, but this… this seems… Well, you should see for yourself.”

            Bhaltair gestured for the soldier to lead the way. She took him to a tent that had been set a bit of a distance from the man camp. Two soldiers were stationed outside it, and saluted when he approached. Bhaltair stepped into the tent, bending his head low to get through the entrance. Inside, stretched out on makeshift wooden cots, lay two dead bodies.

“They were patrolling along the river,” explained the sergeant as she came in beside him.

            Bhaltair leaned over the bodies to take a closer look. Both were handsome Sidhe males, clearly in their prime. Their elegant features would have looked peaceful in death, if not for the fact that their throats had been ripped open with violent force. Dried blood bathed their uniforms, marring the Fae insignia on their chests. The Sidhe were grown men, and trained soldiers at that, but laid there, deprived of their lives, they did not even seem old enough to be out past nightfall. Bhaltair could feel his claws elongating as rage built, and had to grit his teeth hard against an outburst that would do no good whatsoever.

“Tell me everything you know,” he hissed at the sergeant.

“They… they were the newest recruits in our unit, Sire,” she stammered. “They had been quarrelling over something for a few days, so when I arranged the night patrol, I thought I’d get them to work together. Figured it might help them sort out whatever issues they had between them. But when they didn’t report back this morning, I went to look for them and… I found them dead. At first I thought perhaps they’d fought amongst themselves, hurt each other. But then I had a look at their wounds and… well…”

            The soldier trailed off and stared at her feet.

“Say what you have to say, sergeant,” prompted Bhaltair.

“Sire, they don’t look like wounds from ordinary weapons. Whatever attacked them must have been very strong to take down two trained Fae soldiers. And very quiet. And… with very large teeth.”

            Bhaltair glared at the sergeant. She held herself in a formal, straight-backed posture, but her eyes flashed angrily.

“You suspect volkolak, don’t you,” said the king.

“I’m afraid so, Sire. That was why I sent for you.”

            Bhaltair’s mood darkened further. He took another look at the dead bodies, willing himself not to lose his temper.

“Have you notified their families?” he asked.

“Not yet, Sire.”

“And who have you told about your suspicions?”

“No one. But I am not the only one who saw the bodies. The others in the unit may have made their own conclusions, with us being so close to Tengri territory.”

            Bhaltair scowled in warning. The sergeant shuddered a little, but held her position.

“I want no further talk about this, not with anyone,” he commanded. “Not until a Healer has examined the bodies. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Good. All patrols are to be suspended for the time being. Keep your soldiers together, stay in the camp and protect the bodies until they can be transported back to Arisaig. Then gather your unit and report to me back at the Keep as soon as you are able.”

“But what about protecting the border?”

“We are at peace with the Tengri, sergeant,” he grated. “We are not protecting the border – we are simply patrolling it. We need a Healer’s opinion before any further decisions are made. For the moment, I would thank you to heed my orders.”

“Of course, Sire,” muttered the sergeant, but it was clear she was less than happy about it.

“Good. I will arrange the transportation myself. It won’t take more than a day.”

“Thank you, Sire.”

            Bhaltair walked out of the tent and spread his wings. The soldier gave him a listless salute while staring vacantly somewhere past his shoulder.

“Calling for me was the right decision, sergeant,” he added, trying to sound a tad reassuring. “You did well. I will do my best to find out what happened to your men, you have my word. Until then, stay safe!”

            The soldier met his eyes and gave him a sharp nod of gratitude. Bhaltair returned the gesture and launched himself off the ground, rapidly gaining altitude. His flight back to the Keep was no more pleasant than the flight from it. Morbid suspicions consumed him, fuelled by his fury at losing his men. A volkolak attack would not bode well for the delicate peace treaty. Worse still, the wolf shape-shifters were the most volatile among the Tengri factions. Headstrong, violent and easily provoked, they had wreaked havoc during the wars with the Fae, and although they were generally occupied with various squabbles amongst themselves, even the Tengri Grand Council struggled to contain them when they set their minds on something. Despite his best efforts, a thousand unpleasant thoughts and scenarios had already formed in Bhlatair’s head. He needed to speak with a Healer as soon as possible, and only one Healer could be trusted with such dangerous information.

            By the time he approached Arisaig, the moon had set. The capital city of Boglach Dorch emerged slowly before him, bathed in the pale light of dawn. Bhaltair let his tired eyes fill with its splendour. Legends had been told and retold of how the Fae who built it had been pursued far into the treacherous quagmire, surrounded by Tengri and doomed to a slow death in the soft, muddy ground. But Cathal the Cunning had buried his hands in the mud and summoned an enormous rock from the very depths of the earth. The rock exploded from the bog and rose up into the sky, carrying the Fae to safety and burying the Tengri in its foundation. The Fae had named their safe haven Arisaig and made Cathal the first king of Boglach Dorch. Bhaltair was not sure how much of those legends he actually believed, but the mesmerising sight of his home never failed to make him stare in awe. He soared gently above the forest and allowed himself a moment to rest his wings and admire the city. At the very top of the rock, the Keep rose proudly to the sky. Sunshine spilled over its slender towers and gleamed along the rivulets that sprung from underneath it and cascaded downwards, feeding homes and rooftop gardens all the way to the bottom. Four enormous bridges stretched in each direction from the lowest level of the rock, providing safe passage above the quagmire and out to the solid grounds of the surrounding forest. Bhaltair could not help but commend the ingenuity and practicality of Cathal the Cunning. The first Bog King had used his geomancy to create the perfect city: no siege would ever succeed, not with treacherous marshes all around to swallow siege weapons and excellent vantage points for archers at each corner. The original Keep itself had been little more than a crude citadel, designed with the sole purpose of warding off attacks. Over centuries of peace, the city had expanded and had become more beautiful, as each generation of Fae left their mark on the buildings and the cascading gardens. And at this very moment, somewhere inside the Keep, a peculiar girl with eyes like amber awaited, alone and frightened half to death among strange creatures she considered to be demons.

            Bhaltair cursed and hurried onwards. He had left the girl – Marianne – in the care of his mother and had rushed off to the border to check the sergeant’s urgent request. Griselda ought to have finished her examination of the stranger, which was just as well, because Bhaltair had hundreds of questions about her origins and very little patience. The possibility of a volkolak attack, speculative though it was, weighed heavily on him and the absence of rest further soured his temper. It did not help that every time he closed his eyes, Marianne’s image floated before him, as though it had been engraved on the backs of his eyelids. He saw her as she had been that very first night, covered in blood, reeking or iron, with maniacal fervour in her eyes. For the three days she had spent in the forest, Bhaltair had come no closer to solving the mystery of her trespass through the barrier. And although he knew very well that it was absurd to look for a connection between her inexplicable presence in his Realm and the attack at the border, his unease grew steadily with each passing minute.

           Bhaltair tried to push the girl from his mind and focused instead on the task at hand. First of all, he needed to arrange for the dead soldiers to be transported back to the capital. Then, he needed to find his mother and ask her to investigate the source of their injuries. Healers had the power to determine such things with their touch – Griselda described it as a brief vision of the moment when a wound had been inflicted. She devoted a great deal of time and effort to teaching young Healers how to best harness the power of their touch without becoming overwhelmed by the visions of pain and suffering that inevitably came with their Gift. She was probably in the infirmary this very moment, her apprentices gathered around her as she quizzed them pitilessly about various ailments and their treatments, until she could be satisfied that even in their sleep, they would be able to recite the differences between Sidhe, Goblin and Changeling bone structure. The king knew how much Griselda disliked being interrupted when she was teaching, and decided to allow her a bit more time to thoroughly tyrannise the young Healers. He went straight to the barracks and arranged for a convoy to be sent immediately to the northern border for the sergeant and her unit. The captain in charge assured him that the fastest and safest way to transport the dead soldiers would be to carry them on the backs of _eithre_ , as the large bird-like creatures were capable of smooth, gentle flight at very good speed. Barring any delays on the way, the _eithre_  would return before nightfall. Once the plan had been set in motion, Bhaltair flew to the Keep, unable to contain his anxiety any longer. He looked for his mother in the infirmary, but she was nowhere to be found. Her most senior apprentices had been left to tend to the patients and one of them informed him that Griselda had retired to her private garden several hours earlier, not to be disturbed.

           That was where the king found her at last. Sat absolutely still on a stone bench, among all sorts of hybrid plants she was breeding for their medicinal properties, Griselda stared ahead, her unfocused gaze reminiscent of a trance. She did not acknowledge Bhaltair’s presence until he was right beside her, and when he put his hand on her shoulder to get her attention, her body jolted, as if woken from a dream.

“Oh, it’s you,” she said. “What happened at the border?”

“Bad news.” Bhaltair took a seat next to her. “Two soldiers were attacked.”

“Are they alright?”

“No. They were killed.”

“I am sorry, my boy.” Griselda patted his shoulder gently. “Who attacked them?”

“I don’t know yet. But… their sergeant worries that it might have been volkolak.”

“What?” gasped Griselda. “That’s not possible – we are at peace! A Tengri delegation is due for a visit in a week!”

“I know. That is precisely why we need to find out what happened as soon as possible. There is no other Healer I would trust with this task. I’ve sent soldiers to transport the bodies to the Keep. You should have them in the infirmary by tonight.”

“Then let us hope I’m able to Heal again by tonight,” Griselda muttered under her breath. She stood up and went to absentmindedly tend to a plant.

“Mother, is everything alright?” asked Bhaltair, then frowned suspiciously. “Is it the girl?”

            Griselda said nothing, which was confirmation enough. She had found out something about the stranger, and if her slumped shoulders and the deep lines around her eyes were anything to go by, it was not good news.

“Tell me,” rasped Bhaltair. “Is she dangerous? What is she? What does she want?”

“Dangerous? I would not put it that way.”

“Mother…”

“She is human, Bhaltair,” uttered Griselda bleakly.

“You are sure?”

             She looked at him sternly. “I am absolutely certain! Human to the marrow of her bones. And I know this because I mended seven of her bones, which had all been broken in the past year.”

“Broken? How come? She did not seem…”

“Not due to clumsiness,” Griselda added bitterly. “She would not even let me touch her at first. I have never seen someone mistrust a Healer so much.”

“So how did she cross the threshold?” asked Bhaltair.

“I don’t know. Frankly, I don’t even know how she survived this long in the Human Realm.”

“What do you mean? She is only sixteen, isn’t she?”

“She was married off at fifteen,” said Griselda. “Other noble-born girls are married off as young as twelve.”

“Twelve?” uttered Bhaltair, disgusted.

“It is imperative that they start providing children for their husbands as soon as possible,” snarled Griselda. “The younger they start, the better the chances of more children surviving to adulthood, even if the mother doesn’t.”

            Bhaltair was appalled. He had not concerned himself too much with how the humans ran their Realm, but he had expected that they still abided by at least some of the Fae laws. Any Fae who attempted to marry off a child would have been imprisoned, and the child taken into protective custody. Even adult Fae very rarely married before the age of thirty, if ever.

“What else did you find out?” he asked.

“Her father gave her to another nobleman in exchange for supplies and connections with powerful friends. She had only met her husband twice before they were wed.”

“What else?” Bhaltair’s claws were fully extended. 

“She told me about her world,” said Griselda, frowning. “At first I did not believe her – I could not even imagine a Realm so dire. But the more she spoke…. She only knows five people who have lived to be over forty. They don’t even have Healers anymore! They have what she called _physicians_ , but when I asked her what happens when someone gets ill – which appears to be all the time, by the way – do you know what she said to me?”

            Bhaltair did not interrupt his mother, whose voice was growing more agitated with each word.

“She said they put leeches on each other, drink useless herbal tinctures and then pray to their god to heal them! Leeches, Bhaltair! Leeches and prayers! This is _not_ the legacy our Healers left behind three thousand years ago!”

“Mother, I can see that you are…” started Bhaltair, but Griselda was too infuriated to hear him. Sparks were cracking at the tips of her fingers and the very air around her shimmered with the power of her wrath, until even the plants seemed to cower away from her.

“She can barely read!” bellowed Griselda. “Few can, from what she says, and even fewer can write. And they have held onto their sick love for burning! Apparently, if someone says something against that god of theirs, they get promptly _cleansed_ with fire.”

            The brown in Griselda’s eyes had turned a blazing, bright white. Bhaltair could feel her control slipping, like a tremor in the ground under his feet. A Healer in a rage was incredibly dangerous: their powers to Heal could just as easily be used to rupture and destroy the living flesh of everyone in the near vicinity, if they so chose. The Fae king approached his mother cautiously, staff at the ready. The weapon would be utterly useless against Griselda, but he did not know what else to do – he had never, not once in his life, seen her so profoundly affected.

“We did this, Bhaltair,” she cried. “We left the humans to fend for themselves! We were responsible for them, and we abandoned them, and now they live in filth, and die from diseases we could Heal in moments, and they fear the punishment of some sadistic god, and they teach their women that a husband has every right to rape and beat his child-wife!”

            Bhaltair dropped his staff and immediately went over to his mother, wrapping her protectively in his arms. Her outburst had not been brought on by a loss of control, but by sheer angst. She held onto him weakly, her entire body shaking with heart-wrenching sobs. After a while, when she was no longer crying, Griselda pulled away from him and took his face in her hands. Brown eyes, reddened with tears, implored him.

“You must not let her go back there,” she whispered.

“You know I can’t keep her against her will,” he said gently. “Seven years of service is all that she agreed to – it’s all she can agree to, according to our laws. Once her contract ends, she is free to walk away any time she chooses.”

“Then you’d better make sure she has a bloody good reason to stay,” snapped Griselda. “Or I will rip your wings off with my bare hands.”

            Bhaltair said nothing and simply held his mother until she felt better. He had known all along that the girl had suffered, but could not even begin to fathom the visions Griselda must have seen. Once his mother was able to speak again without fighting for each breath, he escorted her to her chambers so that she could take a moment to rest. Desperate for a few minutes of sleep, he headed towards his own rooms through the bright corridors and open galleries of the Keep. Early morning sunlight beamed through tall arches that opened straight to the cascading gardens, but the warmth gave Bhaltair little comfort, and his heart continued to clench and unclench in painful pulses. He was so absorbed by thoughts of Marianne that his mind effortlessly conjured up her image, until she appeared before his tired eyes, as real as she had been when she shook his hand in the forest.

            It took him a long, confused moment to realise that she was actually there, right before him, leaning against an arch and staring out into the gardens. Absorbed in the view, the human girl did not pay any attention to his presence. She had been given a pair of knee-length silk breeches and a tunic that flowed loosely around her slender frame. Her hair, cleaned and brushed, fell in soft waves down her back. Without blood on her face and dressed in something other than the rags and furs he had seen her in, she appeared less like a wild thing of the forest and more like the child that she was. As he watched her, raw, vicious rage flooded through him. The girl had endured enough to bring his own mother – the best bloody Healer in the Realm of Old – on the verge of losing control over her powers. And what did he plan to do? Put a sword in her hand and make a soldier out of her? _Barely old enough to be out past nightfall!_ He was a fool. He ought to tell her that she would not be joining his army, that she should do something else, anything else! It did not matter that most squires who enlisted were about her age, or that all Fae in his service signed the same contract that he'd intended to give her. She was a pale, fragile waif and a volkolak bite would snap her in half.

           But Marianne must have heard him, or noticed his presence in her periphery. She turned sharply towards him, her hand reaching instinctively for the hilt of a sword that was not there. Bhaltair had made her abandon the crude iron weapon before they crossed into Boglach Dorch. Her expression softened a little when she recognised him, but the tension in her shoulders remained.

“You look well,” said Bhaltair, uselessly.

“I rested,” she replied, and the way she subtly moved away from him when he stepped closer felt like a shard of ice driven through his heart.

“Good,” he added stupidly. “Very good.”

            She observed him, large brown eyes gliding curiously over his face.

“You have wings,” she said, as if notifying him of the weather. He imagined she might have been more surprised, but perhaps witnessing Griselda’s Healing powers had made her a bit more accustomed to inexplicable things.

“Do you still think me a demon?” The idle thought somehow slipped out of his mouth before he could stop it.

“I don’t know what to think,” uttered Marianne. “For a long time, I thought I was dead, or dreaming. But God must want me alive, otherwise I wouldn’t be here.”

            _You are not here because of your god,_ Bhaltair thought, irate. But shouting that at her would be pointless. To her, this god and his demons, and whatever else it was that she believed in, seemed to be just as real as his wings were to him. He wondered whether everyone in her Realm felt the same. Did humans walk the earth convinced that the gods they invented lived among them, constantly watching and judging, and deciding their fate? Surely, they had to consider themselves more instrumental than that in the making of their own lives. Bhaltair was about to ask Marianne more about her religion, but her eyes suddenly flashed with such a fierce, disarming glow that he found himself speechless.

“I meant what I said in the forest, about joining your army” she proclaimed, all meekness and uncertainty gone from her voice. “The night we met, I did not expect to live till morning. Now I owe you my life.”

            _You owe me nothing!_  The steel in her voice cut through him. Pure, devastating fury smouldered underneath her frail facade. Untrained though she was, the woman before him, was already a warrior. She had probably realised it around the same time he did, because she appeared a tad surprised by her own words.

“What is your name?” asked Bhaltair. “Your full name?”

            A shadow passed over her face.

“I was born Marianne de Lacy. But my husband’s name is…”

“Lady Marianne de Lacy,” interrupted Bhaltair. “Welcome to your new home. And… welcome to the Fae army.”

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Griselda watched the fight from her seat near the throne. As a rather petite woman, she found herself pondering the logistics of giving her ridiculously tall son a sound smack on the back of the head.

            She had not been fond of Bhaltair’s idea to select the best among his ranks through a tournament. But he’d insisted that a bit of healthy competition was good for morale, and the soldiers had welcomed the opportunity to show off, as soldiers in peacetime usually did. In the end, Griselda decided to turn the whole kerfuffle into an opportunity for her youngest apprentices to practice patching up wounds and broken bones and gave it her reluctant blessing. The tournament dragged on for an entire week, and the competitors went through series of ruthlessly inventive challenges, until only three out of the hundred or so soldiers who had entered remained standing. Or fainting, as was the case with the Cailleach who had just taken a blow from Bhaltair’s staff.

            With a triumphant growl, the king assumed an offensive stance and turned towards the last remaining competitor, fangs bared in challenge. Before him, Marianne crossed her twin sabres and regarded him with a frown of cold determination.

            Griselda smirked. The human lass, while unlikely to defeat the king, was bound to at least give him a good thrashing. Bhaltair was disinclined to show favouritism at the best of times, but when it came to Marianne, he seemed to entirely forget the concept of mercy. For over six years, he had continuously put her resolve to the test with gruelling training and draconian discipline. Among the ranks of his army, the human did not simply endure – she flourished. There was no trace of the drenched waif of a girl who had stumbled into their Realm. In her place stood a ruthless she-wolf with eyes like steel, bedecked in the dark-violet of her ezeryte armour. And if the only thing that stood between her and her goal was Bhaltair himself, the king be damned, she was not backing down.

            Bhaltair charged at her with a roar. Marianne waited until he was almost at her and then dodged his blow expertly. Using his superior height against him, she slid under his arm and lunged back at him, attacking with her sabres in rapid succession. He executed a complicated defensive maneuver and managed to parry her blows, but a split second of distraction on his part was enough for her to spin on her toes and land a solid shin-kick in the middle of his thigh. Bhaltair gave out a muffled grunt and Marianne speedily went back into the safety of her defensive stance, sporting a vicious little grin of her own. She surveyed her surroundings and spared a concerned glance for the two unconscious competitors. But there was little time to think, because Bhaltair was charging at her again, more brutal than before. The final challenge for the last three competitors had been to steal a trophy from the king’s throne room. No other detail had been provided. Marianne, ever suspicious, had suggested a stealthy, cooperative approach in order to eliminate whatever threat undoubtedly awaited before fighting for the trophy. Alas, an impetuous Urisk by the name of Halthor decided to abandon the plan halfway through and go off on his own. In his haste, he managed to reveal their position to the awaiting Bog King. From then on, chaos ensued. Shocked to find out that they would be fighting the king himself, the soldiers failed to regroup in time, and were easily taken out one by one. Only Marianne remained, having lasted longer than the others by virtue of her indomitable stubbornness.

            The lass had a vicious temper on her and a sharp tongue to match, but she rarely let them loose. Even as Bhaltair attacked her with mounting aggression, her movements remained unfailingly precise and elegant. Marianne parried his blows and landed the occasional hit herself, but all it seemed to do was spur him on. He seemed determined to get a rise out of her, or perhaps exhaust her until she failed to parry and conceded her victory. His staff flew at her over and over, too quick to follow, each new attack more pitiless than the last. Griselda noticed that Marianne was favouring her left side and wondered what new injury she had managed to acquire. Nevertheless, it was rather spectacular to watch the smaller human defend herself so valiantly against the Fae king. Unfortunately for her, Bhaltair had one true advantage over all of the competitors. He had not resorted to his wings just yet – the display of superiority would have been needless, given how quickly he took out the others. But for Marianne, he would go to that extra length. Bhaltair spread his wings with fiendish glee and flew out of range of the human’s sabres. That act of arrogance shook her iron resolve and she snarled something at him, but the Big King just grinned and proceeded to attack from the air. Marianne defended herself as best as she could, but he was stronger, faster, and able to fly away from her attacks with little effort. His position in mid-air gave him the option to circle her lazily, while she spun sharply and parried from each possible angle. Sparks flew off in all directions when her twin blades connected with his staff. The slight change of angle meant that she had to engage all her strength and keep her arms lifted higher in order to parry successfully, but all she had to show for it was a grimace of sheer willfulness.

             Bhaltair, being the ferocious beast his mother had raised him to be, swung his staff towards Marianne’s right shoulder. She fell for his decoy and went to parry, but at the very last moment he speedily changed direction and smacked her hard in the ribs. The force sent her flying across the marble floor until she hit her back against the pedestal that held the trophy. Without allowing her a moment’s reprieve, Bhaltair gained height and charged in a plummeting dive. But just before the end of his staff connected with her head, Marianne somehow rolled out of the way, sprang to her feet and hurled herself at his back, avoiding the razor-sharp edges of his wings by sheer luck. Bhaltair snarled harshly and tried his best to dislodge her, but she had her ankles locked tightly around his waist and clung to him like ivy. Her blades had flown out of her hands at some point during the ordeal, which was just as well, because they would have been less than helpful this close to the target. Instead, Marianne tried to snake her arms around Bhaltair’s neck and put him in a chokehold. The king succumbed to his battle rage and fought her off in a savage frenzy. Winged Fae detested having someone on their back – it was the utmost sign of submission to allow one’s wings to be jeopardised. Bhaltair flew up as high as the room allowed, then spun violently in a deadly plummet. Marianne screamed in terror, but held on with all her might. The king attempted another chilling airborne maneuver, but halfway through, Marianne bellowed:

“Neryssa! Get it! Go, NOW!”

            No one had noticed that one of Marianne’s fallen companions had woken up from her stupor and was attempting to drag herself to the trophy and end the fight. Bhaltair had also failed to see it, but once he did, he momentarily abandoned all attempts to dislodge Marianne and instead shot with full speed towards the offending soldier. It was clear to all, including Marianne, that Neryssa would be far too slow to reach the trophy before he annihilated her. In a final desperate attempt to win, the human lass let go of the king’s neck, grabbed one of his wing joints with both hands and yanked, forcing him to change the direction of his flight. That turned out to be her grave mistake.

            Bhaltair’s battle rage turned from exalted to murderous. With a brutal roar, he reached behind him, lodged his claws in Marianne’s armour and dragged her off his back, then hurled her towards Neryssa. As the two women collided in a pile of limbs and curses, he swung his staff at the trophy and sent it flying to the other end of the hall. Neryssa was the first to scamper off, desperately yelling for her life as she went _._ Bhaltair ignored her. He was wild, shaking with fury, fangs bared for blood. Marianne was still on her back when she saw him coming for her and desperately tried to grasp her abandoned sabre. Bhaltair would have none of it. He threw himself towards her, kicked the weapon out of her reach and put the sharp blade at the end of his staff against her neck. Marianne’s hands grabbed the base of the staff and she somehow held the sharp end away from her neck while simultaneously kicking up at the king and catching him square in the jaw. But before carnage ensued, Neryssa managed to sneak up behind the enraged Bhaltair, pick up the discarded trophy and wave it triumphantly over her head, thus putting an end to the fight and the tournament.

            Griselda decided it was time to intervene and stop everyone from truly murdering each other. She stood up and summoned the Healers.

“The tournament is over!” she proclaimed jubilantly. Once she announced it, the obscuring glamour around the throne room dissipated and the magically muffled audience emerged from the shadows in an explosion of exuberant cheering. All around the main podium Fae soldiers shouted for the winner, even as Bhaltair and Marianne glared at each other. Healers rushed out to awaken the unconscious Urisk who had fallen so easily under Bhaltair’s assault. Neryssa, still clutching the trophy, shakily made her way to the welcoming crowd. At last, with palpable reluctance, Bhaltair pulled his staff away from Marianne’s throat and offered her his hand. Griselda had never seen a hand be taken with so much spite and had to bite her lip to prevent a knowing smirk from escaping while the king helped Marianne back up. Instead, maintaining her serious expression, the Healer addressed her son.

“Announce the winner, my king!”

            Bhaltair wiped bluish blood off his face and looked around at the expectant audience. Everyone had gone completely silent, cowering in his ominous shadow. The Fae king, with his wings out in full battle rage, was a sight to behold at the best of times. With anger still coursing through him, he was volatile enough to do something sensationally violent and abysmally stupid. But as much as he might have wanted to charge at all of them – and at Marianne in particular – Bhaltair straightened up and assumed his most commanding stance.

“Over the past week, we saw all our contestants challenged repeatedly, as they would be in battle. Their prowess, skill and dedication do me proud as their king and commander. The winner of the tournament is Lady Neryssa of the Cailleachan!”

            An eruption of applause drowned all other noise in the room. Neryssa managed to smile, though she did not seem entirely sure where she was or what was happening to her.

“Of course,” continued Bhaltair, rendering the crowd silent once more. “Victory in this tournament, as on the battlefield, is not a solitary achievement. The triumph of a warrior can only be measured by the bravery of their comrades. For that reason, an honorable mention is in order for the spectacular performance of Lady Marianne de Lacy.”

            Raucous ovation once again flooded the room. Neryssa put away all pretenses, ran to Marianne and threw herself at her. The human returned the hug for as long as she could before curling up over herself and groaning in pain. That was Griselda’s clue to make her way over to the two women and take Marianne by the elbow. For once in her life, the stubborn lass went to the infirmary willingly, but the vicious glare she threw in Bhaltair’s direction was not subtle enough for Griselda to miss.    

            For the past six years, Griselda had insisted on being the only one to treat Marianne, and had observed her growth into physical maturity with persistent curiosity and fascination. Still, after all this time, treating the human remained emotionally taxing. On the night of her very first Healing, Marianne had been shaking with relief, freed from the aches and pains that had tormented her for months. Griselda had been shaking with the need to vomit in the nearest corner. Visions of shattered, twisted bones, agony and a forceful, bloody expulsion still tormented her, and the memory of Marianne’s words, snarled through tears of self-hatred, would haunt the Healer until her dying day. _I wanted nothing of his inside me._

            Griselda was dragged from her recollections by Marianne’s prolonged groan of frustration. Away from prying eyes, in the sanctity of the infirmary, the lass unleashed a string of colourful curses and dragged herself awkwardly over an empty cot. She began to angrily unfasten her armour, if the garment had personally offended her.

“You do know victory was really yours, don’t you?” said Griselda nonchalantly while preparing her supplies.

“The trophy isn’t though,” quipped Marianne and her cuirass hit the floor with a loud thud, as if to stress the point.

“No, but the soldiers will be worshipping the land under your feet, now that they’ve seen you grab the king by the wings.”

            Marianne made a sound somewhere between a sneer and a laugh, which promptly morphed into a pained moan. Griselda hurried over to survey the damage.

“Hush now, this is nothing. Ribs are just badly bruised, nothing to worry about. But he cut straight through your armour! You should see the gashes he left on your back!”

“I suppose I owe the king an apology for trying to… well… fly him.”

“Nonsense. You broke no rules, and you made the best out of a tough fight.”  

Griselda was rather impressed with her son’s degree of control over his battle rage. His claws could have easily cut straight through Mairanne’s spine. Instead, he had only slashed her reinforced cuirass and left shallow wounds on her back that would heal almost instantly and leave no scar. Griselda breathed a sigh of relief and began to painstakingly apply stitching potion to each wound. It stung and tingled, but Marianne gritted her teeth against the unpleasant sensation and refused to voice any complaints.

“How are – _argh!_ – how are the others?” she asked.

“They’ll be good as new by tomorrow. You, on the other hand, might consider taking an extra day or two, in my opinion. Did you know that Halthor’s sword went flying out of his hand on the second strike?”

“I had an inkling his fight didn’t go so well.”

“Bhaltair likes to make a dramatic entrance. The Urisk was a bit surprised, to say the least. If I were not a sophisticated lady, I would say he was shitting himself.”

Marianne was trying very hard not to laugh and to remain still under Griselda’s ministrations.

“Why would the king duel us, anyway?” she asked.

“To challenge you, of course. You of all people should know how obsessed he is with testing his warriors. And, to be frank, he only really duelled you, Lady Quickblade.”

            Marianne scoffed at the use of her nickname and dismissed the compliment. As the skin on her back began to knit itself closed, she once again resorted to cursing.

“He was trying to make me angry!” she growled.

“Maybe next time you should consider letting him. Ah! There – good as new! Now let’s see to those ribs, shall we?”

            Marianne bore her Healing with quiet determination and seemed visibly relieved to be pronounced in perfect form.

“I need a bath,” she said while she gathered her things. “And then I might just sleep for three days.”

“You won’t be joining the feast?” asked Griselda. “I hear there will be all sorts of decadent treats. Vast quantities of food and drink are to be consumed tonight – Healer’s orders.”

            Marianne hesitated. It was rather peculiar that after so many years in the unfamiliar world she’d once considered fantastical, the human lass was perfectly happy to fight side by side with the Fae, but struggled to enjoy their celebrations and banquets. And the residents of Boglach Dorch liked to feast – it was an art form for them, not unlike music and poetry.

“It’s your celebration too, lass,” said Griselda reassuringly. “And I have it on good authority that the honey wine is particularly fine this season.”

            Marianne made a noncommittal noise. She saluted the Healer as she would the king, and made her way out of the infirmary. Griselda stared after her. Human through and through, that stubborn woman. Once again, she had to give up on trying to find any trace of Fae in the lass – there was no point in looking for something that was simply not there. No explanation could be found for Marianne’s talent with a blade, aside from long, arduous hours of training. Her natural aptitude at spotting and exploiting weaknesses made her an excellent strategist, but it was a skill that many before her had possessed and many after her would. In spite of all logic, Lady de Lacy was nothing other than a strong-willed human with a fiery temper. Griselda wished dearly that Marianne would allow herself to enjoy the festivities for at least a few hours. She would need the moments of joy to keep her going through the perilous days ahead. Despite appearances, the king had not organised the tournament just for sport. He needed to select the best among his warriors to join him on a dangerous mission, and worst of all, the fate of the fragile peace between Fae and Tengri was hanging in the balance.

 

* * * * *

 

            Marianne took yet another look in the mirror. She could pretend that it was for the purpose of doing something about her appearance, but in reality, she just wanted to delay the inevitable. Fortunately, her life among the Fae had resulted in a whole myriad of changes in her body and exploring them in detail would buy her a few minutes. For one thing, her clothes alone would have been effectively criminal in the Human Realm. Well-bred, respectable human ladies wore long kirtles in dull colours and covered up their hair with veils and wimples. The Fae wore whatever they damn well pleased. Thus, when she was not in armour, Marianne opted for soft breaches, colourful spider silk tunics, and tall leather boots. In her first year, she had come to the rapid realisation that long hair was not so much a lure to good men as a bloody nuisance when one had to learn how to fight. Therefore, she wore it short. But all of that paled in comparison with the changes in her body. Safe from the diseases that killed indiscriminately in her world and nourished by the plentiful food of the Fae, Marianne had not only succeeded in growing older, but had also managed to grow taller and stronger. Six years of gruelling practice with swords and bows had remoulded her frame, until wiry cords of muscle covered every part of her that had once been thin and insubstantial. Even out of her armour, adorned in delicate spider silk, she looked like a warrior. Yet, the irrational sense of dread that pulsed in her chest refused to subside, completely unperturbed by her newfound strength.    

            _Breathe_ , she thought. _It will be alright. Breathe. This is not hard. This is just a bloody banquet, come on, you’ve been to so many of them – you just outperformed a hundred Fae soldiers in a tournament, this is nothing! Go now, please, please, why is this so – no, it isn’t, I’m just being – no, come on, let’s go! Go, LEAVE NOW!_

            Before she could hesitate any further, Marianne launched herself at the door and scurried out of her room. _Her_ room, where she could be alone if she wished, where no one had the right to enter unless she explicitly invited them, _her sanctuary!_ And here she was, walking away from it, when she would barely need an excuse to spend the night curled up with one of the many books she’d taken from the Keep’s enormous library. But she was a warrior, damn it, and she would not let herself be frightened by a stupid banquet. Marianne crossed the barracks, sped through deserted corridors that towered over her, and listened to her own footsteps echo in rhythm with her galloping heart. Her sole comfort was that the feast had begun already, and everyone would be too busy eating and drinking to notice her absence, or indeed, her forthcoming presence. She simply needed to find some honey wine and a quiet corner to sink back and drink it undisturbed. She dearly hoped Neryssa’s victory would be the centre of attention for the night and her own acrobatics with the Bog King would fade to oblivion among merriment and raucous music.

            The king… he would be there. Marianne had to stop and take another deep breath. She had grabbed his wings! Of course everyone would be talking about it – she had done something so profoundly stupid that it would probably deserve a mention in Fae history books. But it was too late to turn back – she was already outside the barracks and halfway to her dreaded destination. Before long, she found herself at the bottom of the cascading gardens that spanned the Keep, where hundreds of Fae had gathered to celebrate the end of the tournament. The revel appeared to be in full swing, laughter and music drifted in the air, and everyone seemed to be having such tremendous amounts of fun that they hardly noticed her as she made her way through the crowd. Fae banquets were nothing like the grandiose, regimented Christmas celebrations of her previous life. The Fae dispensed with the concept of keeping up appearances and focused solely on pleasure and unselfconscious enjoyment. Most of them were sitting on the lush grass of the gardens, some in big raucous groups, others in smaller, more intimate congregations, but all invariably smiling and engaged in convivial chatter. The mirth in their voices was like a hum in the air. Soon, Marianne’s ears could no longer distinguish any single word among the cacophony of sound, music and conversations all blended into a loud, overwhelming buzz, and although her eyes darted around helplessly, she failed to recognise a single familiar face in the crowd. She was suddenly struggling to breathe, as if the noise had flooded her lungs and swept her up in a violent undercurrent of colour, and heat, and mounting panic.

“There she is! Marianne! Over here!”

            Someone was yelling her name over the clamour. Marianne looked around frantically. Once her panic eased, she recognised the voice as belonging to none other than Neryssa herself. The tournament champion was sitting alone under a slender tree that had been decorated with tiny floating lights.  

“Come here, you reckless beauty, and break bread with your most devoted Cailleach!”

Neryssa’s voice was loud and clear, powerful enough to break through the thick curtain of noise and pull Marianne forward. The rough accent of her native tongue saturated each syllable of her Common. Marianne took a seat next to Naryssa and instantaneous relief washed over her in soothing waves. Shortly afterwards, their friend Lauchlan, obviously happy to have been released from his Healer duties for the night, appeared with an enormous platter piled with food and a jug of honey wine big enough to drown in.

“Ah, here you are, at last!” greeted Neryssa, as if he had been gone for a decade. “Hasten your Healing hand and pour some wine for my Lady of the quickest blades!”

            Lauchlan poured wine for everyone, but before Marianne had the chance to take a sip, Neryssa snaked an arm around her waist and pulled her to her feet. After some swaying and a considerable struggle for balance, the champion of the tournament rose in her full glory and raised her cup to the sky.

“A toast!” she announced triumphantly. “To the Lady Marianne! To whom I own this glorious victory! May she live a thousand years, and may she never go without bread and wine, and those honey cakes with the nuts on top, and that thing with the raspberries – what’s it called? Where they soak them in liquor, you know, what is it? – urgh, sod it, and that too, and fish – she likes fish– and may she always have fish and bread, and honey cakes, and boozy raspberries, and may her actions never bring her dishonour, except if she ever decides to shag me, in which case, may she decide that, fuck it, she likes dishonour, and may she abscond with me to the crags to have many a night of dishonourable shagging under the stars! Glory to the Fae!”

            Marianne could not help but giggle at the heartfelt toast and raised her own cup. Lauchlan had completely abandoned any notion of decorum and was bent over double, shaking in violent fits of laughter. Meanwhile, Neryssa continued with her attempt to stand tall and proud, but when she began to gradually tilt to the left, Marianne pulled her down and made her sit. The Cailleach magnanimously flicked her rust-coloured hair and leaned back against the tree.

“Fuck, I’m tired!” she declared. “Where have you been, anyway?”

“Thought I’d give you some time alone with your admirers,” quipped Marianne. Neryssa made a disgusted face.

“Bloody Sidhe… This morning, I was a blue-skinned freak. Tonight, I’ve had five marriage proposals in the last hour. Flippant cunts!”

“Hey, don’t be mean!” cried Lauchlan. “We’re not all bad. I’m a Sidhe, and I always loved you!”

“That’s because you’re half-Sidhe. The Changeling blood improves you.”

            Neryssa spoke to him as if he were a confused toddler. She paused and stared at her cup, a deep frown of concentration on her face. Within a moment, having suddenly remembered what eluded her, she exploded in another impassioned rant.

“And what’s that shite about _we’re not all bad_? Just because one Sidhe isn’t a self-important dickweasel doesn’t mean there’s no such thing as self-important dickweaselry! Same as saying Marianne here doesn’t eat babies, therefore no human has ever eaten a baby!” She hesitated, glancing at Marianne. “Humans eat babies, right?”

“Every Christmas.”

            Neryssa and Lauchlan gawked at her in dismay.

“It was a joke,” she added swiftly. Neryssa snorted in laughter and Lauchlan tipped the jug until Marianne’s cup was filled to the very brim.

“Drink more, Lady Quickblade,” he advised. “And perhaps your jokes will bring you less dishonor.”

“Some Healer you are!” jibed Neryssa. “How’s that idiot Halthor doing, anyway?”

“I managed to wake him up and Heal him earlier. He was… livid.”

“He yelled at you, didn’t he?”

“A little.”

“Lauchlan…”

“He was upset! The king took him down in three blows!”

“Lauchlan…”

“He didn’t really yell at me, he just sort of… yelled near me. Well, maybe a little bit at me, but that was only because the stitching potion stings so much, and – ”

“Lauchlan!”

            The Healer covered his face with his palms.

“I’m pathetic, I know,” he mumbled.

“You’re an idiot for letting him be a dick to you!” Neryssa waved her hands in exasperation. “You’re pining after a massive dick!”

Lauchlan spread his fingers over his face just enough for his raised eyebrow to show through. Marianne decided to take over before the two of them descended into an in-depth discussion of the anatomical qualities of Urisks.  

“You’re not pathetic,” she said gently.

“I am,” sighed Lauchlan. “I can’t help myself – he’s just so – “

“Boorish?” offered Neryssa in her interminable helpfulness. “Conceited? Completely inferior to you in every way imaginable?”

“Yes, and I’m still madly in love with him!” snapped Lauchlan. “Better make your fucking peace with it, Cailleach. Marianne, you’re the only one among us who has actually been married. Tell me what to do!”

            Marianne took a long drink of honey wine. It was absolutely delightful in its sweet freshness, subtly flavoured with some floral aftertaste she couldn’t quite identify. Dandelion, or perhaps acacia? She focused on the glorious sensation that spread over her taste buds and dedicated every capacity she possessed to maintaining a neutral facial expression. Her friends knew that she had been married at one point and no longer was, but that was all. Only Griselda was aware of the full effects of the marriage, and her oath of silence on the matter was solid. Marianne took another sip, surveyed her own emotional state for any threat of imminent outburst and drank again for good measure before responding.

“Lauchlan, if all Halthor does is make you miserable, then it might be wiser to look for someone better suited.”

“Thank you!” Neryssa clapped her hands in approval.

“You’re right,” muttered Lauchlan. “But deep in my soft, spiritless heart, part of me wishes you were wrong.”

The Healer looked utterly crestfallen. He had been infatuated with Halthor for months, but had never acted on his feelings, out of fear that the Urisk might reject a Halfling such as himself. During her years in the Realm of Old, Marianne had learnt that while most Fae were happy to dally freely with anyone – and were in fact encouraged to do so to their heart’s content – when it came to lasting pair bonds and offspring, they tended to stick to their own kind. Halflings were unpredictable in their skills and powers, and were therefore rare, even if the king himself was a curious cross of Sidhe and Goblin.

“I should have been born Urisk,” mumbled Lauchlan despondently. “Then he would have loved me back.”

“Bull-fucking-shite!” cried Neryssa. “ _Haldor_ _krymnor’dur dwynn’thrath bollydden mav’hardywl_!”

Marianne was nowhere near fluent in the Cailleach’s native tongue, but she knew enough to recognise the exceedingly humiliating and physically impossible act that was suggested for Halthor. She promptly intervened, while the tournament champion continued to sputter profanities.

“What Neryssa means is that being half-Sidhe is not something you should ever want to change, not for anyone. You wouldn’t have been a Healer without your Sidhe blood! Can you imagine not being a Healer? Is Halthor’s pointy-eared ass really worth your sacred gift?”

            Lauchlan seemed like he was about to hesitate in his response, but Marianne would not allow it.

“Of course not!” she stated. “If he doesn’t love you back because you’re half-Sidhe, then he is not even worthy of cleaning your chamber pot.”

“My what?”

            And thus, Marianne found herself explaining the concept of chamber pots to her Fae friends. Neryssa was too far-gone to spare human notions of sanitation any criticism, but despite all the ridicule – or perhaps because of it – Lauchlan ended up in a slightly better mood. At last, wiping a tear of laughter from his eye, he rediscovered his ability to speak.

“Between a drunk Cailleach and a human who shits in flower pots, I find myself wishing for better friends.”

“Chamber pots.”

“Pots of any kind are wrong for this!”

            Neryssa patted Lauchlan’s shoulder. “Also, you know no one else would have you. Halfling freak.”

“Blueskinned harpy!”

“Seriously?”

“Quiet with you, Potshitter!”

            For a little while, an ingenious array of offences were exchanged without a trace of malice, until they all calmed down enough to enjoy the delicacies Lauchlan had brought. They ate in companionable silence, each absorbed in whatever thoughts happened to engage them. Marianne nibbled on a light, buttery pastry filled with honey-glazed strawberries. The wine had eased some of the tension in her shoulders and she found herself enjoying the music that drifted freely over the gardens. Melodies from pipes, violins and lutes harmonised beautifully, led by the masterful beat of drums. Occasionally, singers joined the main band of musicians and performed songs in the various native dialects of the Fae.

            Marianne had become fluent in the Common tongue that was spoken across the Realm of Old, courtesy of hours of study that the king had insisted she find a way to fit around her training. Nevertheless, the wealth of distinct dialects often made it sound as though different groups of Fae spoke entirely different languages. Marianne had begun to distinguish them after hours of careful listening and eventually learned to absorb sounds, inflections and phrases like a sponge. The Sidhe, who were the most human-like among the Fae, spoke in a singsong lilt of soft and hard consonants, strung together by divergent vowels that were produced with the subtlest shifts in the tip of the tongue. The Goblins, with their sharp features and skin tones that ranged from pale-grey to brownish-green, used a guttural brogue with sonorant phonemes and fused sounds across words. The Changelings all spoke Common, but their individual tongues were impossible for Marianne to learn, simply because her body did not possess the physical features necessary to produce the sounds. Urisk, once changed into their beast form, had deer-like legs, cloven hooves and long, pointed ears, which twitched delicately when they communicated among each other in bawls, grunts and soft clicking sounds. Pooka were such deft shapeshifters that they seamlessly adapted to their animal form and conversed with horses and rabbits without any apparent effort. In their human-like form, all Changelings were barely distinguishable from the Sidhe, with large, expressive eyes, lean bodies, delicately pointed ears and regal features. Their sublime attractiveness gave Neryssa numerous sources of inspiration for ridicule and various faults were easily found with the unblemished pallor of their skin, the sleekness of their hair and their long, slender limbs. Cailleachan, the reclusive sorcerers of the Western crags, not only spoke a completely different language to all other Fae, but also had blue skin and wild hair in various shades of red and orange that seemed to purposefully twist in spiralling curls.

          While her friends indulged in gossip about the visiting Tengri ambassadors, Marianne sat back quietly and considered how her life had panned out among these strange creatures. It was hardly surprising that as an outsider, she had instinctively made friends with others who did not fit so effortlessly into Fae society. Although all inhabitants of Boglach Dorch were generally friendly and welcoming towards her, an air of uncertainty always hung about, seeping like a persistent leak through unintended gestures and guarded looks. The Fae knew little of her, except that she came from the Human Realm, and they all accepted easily enough that she had the right to dwell among them on account of having crossed the threshold and having signed a binding contract of service. But their own secretive nature precluded any overt expressions of curiosity about her life, as such would be considered unforgivably rude in Fae society. Naturally, no laws or customs existed against gossip and speculation, but after sixteen years spent in manor houses full of servants, Marianne had learnt to ignore gossip and had simply become accustomed to monitoring her own behaviour for anything peculiar or potentially provocative. Except when she had a sword in her hand – then a blood-red veil descended before her eyes and she thought of nothing but victory.

The night progressed in deep musings and light chatter. The gossip became more and more speculative, and rumours about Tengri-related unrest among the northern border mingled with wild theorising about the delegation and king’s supposedly upcoming nuptials. Marianne did not partake. She was content to quietly listen with half an ear and observe the lively crowd. After several cups of wine, she began to feel renewed tiredness weighing heavily on her limbs, and was just about ready to announce her departure from the banquet when Lauchlan suddenly recalled something of seemingly crucial importance.

“The king!” he proclaimed. “He hasn’t shown up yet. Neryssa, when are you meant to be joining him?”

            Marianne had no desire to voice her thoughts on the matter of the absent Bog King, but Neryssa’s eyes widened in sudden realisation.

“Fuck!” she announced.

“Fuck what?”

“The procession! The delegation! The Tengri! Lauchlan, you need to sober me up right now!”

“What procession?” asked Marianne.

“Weren’t you listening? The Tengri delegation that was due to arrive for the last day of the tournament!” explained Lauchlan. “They were delayed for some reason, but before you showed up earlier, we heard that they’d arrive just in time for the banquet and the king and the tournament champion would lead a procession to formally greet their ambassador.”

“Alas, the tournament champion is completely sozzled at present and cannot stand up from under this tree!” added Neryssa.

Lauchlan was already on his feet and on his way to the infirmary.

“I’ll go fix you a quick tincture, you’ll be good as new in two minutes!”

“Wait! Just Heal me, you idiot!” shouted Neryssa, but he was already too far away to hear, and far too drunk to reconsider his actions. Unfortunately for the Cailleach, even as the Halfling bumbled gracelessly through the crowd, a sour-faced Goblin from the king’s personal guard approached the two women.

“Lady Neryssa, you are being summoned by the king,” he announced bitterly, without a doubt cursing his own rotten luck for having to work on the night of the banquet. Neryssa responded with an incoherent noise that defied Marianne’s comprehension of her language.

“Lady Neryssa is feeling a little… indisposed,” said Marianne. “You know, from the fight. She will be with you in just a moment, once the Healer is back with…”

“My apologies, Lady Marianne, but there is absolutely no time to dawdle. The king will have my head if I make the delegation wait for a moment longer than they have to!”

“Alright, alright, I’ll help her,” said Marianne. The wine had done its duty in weakening her own knees, but she stood up and helped Neryssa to her feet. The two women walked deliberately after the grumpy guard, who kept turning back to throw them dirty looks for being too slow. Marianne scowled at him and Neryssa seemed to have forgotten everything she knew about walking in a straight line.

“This is a disaster,” the inebriated Cailleach muttered under her breath.

“It will be fine, just focus,” whispered Marianne.

“This is a disaster.”

“No, it isn’t, just…”

“This is a disaster!”

“Oh, God give me strength! You’re a soldier, pull yourself together! You don’t actually have to do anything – just be quiet, don’t speak unless spoken to and try to look demure. And don’t fall over! It will be easy, you’ll see!”

“This is a – “

“The next Fae to say the word disaster will get impaled on my sword, I swear to God!”

“Wsnt gun’say dat. Impale me not, maiden fair. I will… I will…”

            But whatever Neryssa was about to say was soon lost in the sounds of the cheering crowd that had already gathered just outside the Keep to watch the procession. They applauded the champion. The champion appeared to be asleep on Marianne’s shoulder.

“Don’t you dare!” snarled Marianne. She grabbed Neryssa by the arms and shook her, then slapped her cheeks a few times with the tips of her fingers. The Cailleach’s lids opened lethargically to reveal dazed, unseeing blue eyes with dilated pupils.

“Neryssa, listen to me,” warned Marianne. “You did not win this damn tournament just to fall over because you drink like a fish! What will everyone think of the Cailleachan?”

            Two important facts dawned on Marianne. Firstly, her friend was completely unperturbed by threats of disgracing her people. Secondly, the words that had just left her mouth might as well have been spoken in her own father’s stern voice. Marianne swore under her breath and attempted a different approach.

“Neryssa, if you do this without disgracing yourself, I promise to kiss you afterwards.”

            Widely stretched pupils shrank rapidly to sharp pinpoints and focused on Marianne. Neryssa’s face instantaneously morphed from delirious to deadly.

“Ye’ll gimme a propr snókr. Or I’ll hex ye.”

“Yes, a proper snókr. Now get in there!”

            A large grin spilled over Neryssa’s lips and pearly-white teeth flashed against the blue of her skin. She gave Marianne a tiny curtsey and then made her own way after the guard, in more or less a straight line. The pair disappeared somewhere in the Keep and Marianne was left on her own among the jittering crowd, with nothing to do but wait for the ill-fated procession to emerge from the gates. She would stay long enough to ensure that Neryssa would not stumble over her own feet and hex herself as a result. Then, she would go back to her room and sleep for about a week. Oh, and there was the snókr, of course, but that would have to wait until morning.

            At last, after what felt like hours but was only a couple of tense minutes, the grumpy guard opened the Keep gates and announced the king. Bhaltair emerged and descended slowly down the wide steps, adorned in an intricate silver armour that was nothing like his usual battle garments. Marianne found herself admiring its design, even as she gauged that its single, utmost purpose was to astonish, rather than protect. A distant, long-buried memory of Roland in his parade regalia momentarily jerked to life, only to be viciously stuffed back in its grave. Marianne made conscious effort to pull all her attention away from the king’s armour and direct it to his mesmerising wings. Very few Fae had wings, and most used peculiar creatures that resembled giant cormorants when they needed to cover large distances or treacherous terrain. Marianne had been terrified by the _eithre_ at first, but flying them turned out to be quite intuitive and a lot more comfortable than riding a horse. But Bhaltair’s wings had fascinated her from the moment she first laid eyes on them. The Bog King’s speed and aerodynamic agility were simply awe-inspiring, and his wings were a thing of absolute beauty. Two sets were attached to his back, made from plates of stiff, translucent tissue that resembled a glassy, reflective mosaic. There was a metallic sheen to the outer edges, where the tissue sharpened like a honed blade, strong enough to cut through solid wood. At present, as he walked before the crowd, his wings were still and spread wide in a display of power. But during flight or in battle, they would flap rapidly, controlled by the powerful joints Marianne had stupidly grabbed during the fight. Although she did not think about it at the time, later on it occurred to her that the joints themselves did not seem to flex with at the same rate as the wings. They had to work by producing energy that propagated along the richly veined, translucent tissue and caused the resonant flapping frequency of the wings themselves to multiply at the expense of minimal joint movement. In fact, Bhaltair’s entire body appeared to have been designed for efficiency and agility, and Marianne found herself wishing that the ridiculous, pompous armour he wore did not conceal it.

At last, she managed to tear her eyes away from Bhaltair’s wings, but when she glanced up at his face, she realised with a start that he had been gazing at her all along. Appalled at her own shameless scrutiny, she gave him a polite nod and looked away, ignoring the peculiar tingling in her fingertips. Her eyes frantically searched for a new target among the procession and found Neryssa, who was making her way after the king with the appearance of a true champion in complete control of her faculties. Griselda and the king’s advisors were the next to emerge, all bedecked in the sort of finery that suggested a very important visitor. At last, the procession gathered before the awaiting crowd, all facing the Keep gate. The king gestured at the grumpy guard, who said something to someone else, and a moment later, the guests of honour emerged.

            A collective gasp sounded from the crowd. The three creatures who descended down the steps appeared to be made of silk and moonlight. Marianne was certain they were phantoms, until hushed whispers from the other Fae reached her ears. _Samodivi_. Marianne had read about the Samodivi, but had never seen one before. There were drawings of them in books, of course, but in hindsight, those seemed absurdly inadequate. The three Samodivi before her were inexplicably, unforgivably beautiful. Slender like Sidhe, they floated towards the king with sinuous grace. And while each of them was an embodiment of perfection, the one who walked slightly ahead of the other two was made to be worshipped as a goddess. The Samodiva had alabaster skin that seemed to shimmer in the moonlight, or perhaps it contained the moonlight. Silver-blond hair fell down to her waist in gentle waves, completely free of decoration, except for a delicate circlet against her forehead. Her long, flowing dress was pure white, so sleek and delicate that it put spider silk to shame. In fact, it seemed as if mist and starlight had somehow been woven into the diaphanous fabric. The dress split at one side to reveal the Samodiva’s long, supple leg, her bare, high-arched feet and the tantalising glitter of her anklet. The magnificent creature glided down the stairs and stepped up to the king, who appeared just as captivated as everyone else. She extended her delicate, pale hand for him to kiss.

“Welcome to Boglach Dorch, Lady Silvana,” said Bhaltair. “You honour us with your presence.”

“And you honour me with your hospitality,” replied the Samodiva.

Her voice was pure and fragile like crystal, too refined for the crudeness of speech. Each word of her Common was alluringly coloured with an unfamiliar accent.

“King Bhaltair, to show our gratitude to you and the Fae for welcoming us so warmly, my sisters and I would like to sing for you and your subjects. And I offer you the gift of my Dance.”

            Without waiting for a response, the Samodiva stepped back and spread her arms, graceful as a swan, then flicked her curtain of pale hair behind her back and began to _sing_.

            There was nothing Marianne had experienced that could compare to the song. To describe the sound would be to spend a futile lifetime looking for words that did not exist. The Samodiva did not produce the melody – she _was_ the melody. And the song was suddenly _inside_ Marianne, under her skin, mixing with her blood, causing her heart to ache and twist painfully, and cower before such ethereal beauty. Tears welled in her eyes and spilled down her face, and she was completely at the mercy of the melody, both soothing and tragic. But if the song made her feel unworthy in the presence of such divinity, nothing could have prepared her for the Dance. This was a power that defied description, because it did not entice the mind. It enslaved the heart, or the soul, or something else altogether, something feral and untamed that had no name, but that had known love and lust long before names existed. While her sisters sang, Silvana’s body twisted and undulated as if no force existed to connect her to the ground. There was airy elegance and precision in her movements, but there was also a sensual, rampant beauty that was as fierce and corporeal as the desire it evoked. And somehow, as the melody continued, music and Dance coalesced and sent ripples of longing along Marianne’s skin, until their combined force provoked in her an urge to rip her own chest open and lay her wretched, bleeding heart at the Samodiva’s feet.

            Marianne did not know when the Dance ended, nor the song. She was not aware that she had been granted permission to breathe again. Once she realised it was over, she looked around cautiously to see if anyone had noticed her tears. She needn’t have worried – all the Fae around her, to the very last one, were wiping tears off their faces. Only the king appeared somewhat composed, though there was an enchanted, wide-eyed look on his face that did not suit his typical severity. He stepped forward, offered Silvana his hand and led her to the central table that had been set up for him and his advisors. Adoration was practically carved on his face. It glittered in his eyes and softened the familiar sharpness of his features, and suddenly, Marianne could no longer stand there and witness the interaction. She pushed her way free of the crowd and ran to the barracks, all thoughts of her friends completely forgotten. The Samodiva’s power lingered, thick and clammy, like the aftermath of an unwelcome kiss on her skin. Fury ignited Marianne’s blood. She took a sharp turn along the empty corridors and went to seek out the only cure that could tame the pounding of her heart. Instead of checking on her sister’s sleep through the enchanted embers, as she usually did late at night, Marianne spent the hours until morning battering a practice dummy with her swords, until it was reduced to a pile of dust.

 

Bhaltair’s engagement to Lady Silvana of the Samodivi was announced at sunset on the following day. Barely an hour later, Marianne was urgently summoned to the throne room.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

The drums beckoned him.

Their rhythm echoed in his heart and pumped delicious heat along his limbs. Bhaltair ran between the trees, searching for the source of the compelling sound. He considered flying, but something stopped him – it was important to run, it was necessary… but why? He drew in a deep breath and sprinted forward. It didn't matter that he could not even recognise the forest he was in – he was so close now that he could taste the warmth of the fire. He reached the clearing in a wild rush, but although the beat of the drums was loud all around him, he saw no drummers. All he could make out was a pit of smouldering embers, the very air around them trembling with searing heat. And in the middle of the pit, completely unharmed by the fiery ground and bathed in its red glow, stood the dancer. Once her eyes met his, she began to jump and twist to the rhythm of the drums in a wild, wanton display, her skin glistening with exertion. And although Bhaltair could not recognise her face, his body knew her instantly and responded to her call with violent hunger. He knew that he was supposed to walk onto the burning embers and take her in his arms, that her dance was not for seduction, that it was meant to taunt and test him, to make him prove his worth. Her wicked smirk was an insolent challenge, but desire burned in the amber depths of her eyes, and Bhaltair knew that she wanted him, that her lust was as consuming as his own. Without hesitation, he crossed the distance to the crackling pit, craving the taste of her skin like a starved man. But just before he reached for her, he felt something pull him back. He realised with horror that his hands were cuffed behind his back in an ice-cold grip, held firmly away from his dancer. Bhaltair roared in agony and struggled to get free, but it was no use - the snare tightened around his wrists and pulled him back relentlessly. He shouted for help, but the dancer was suddenly too far away, and the embers hissed when her tears fell on them, but he was helpless to stop her. In a moment of despair, he unleashed his claws and tried to slash through the snare, or through his own arms, _anything,_ just so he could reach her, just to make her stay - 

Bhaltair woke up with a scream.

Sunlight gleamed through the arching windows of his bedroom and fresh morning air wafted gently inside, soothing the feverish heat of his skin. There were no embers anywhere, no snares held him, and the only drumming he was aware of came from the violent pounding of his own heart. His bed covers lay in a tangled mess around him. Bhaltair groaned in frustration and rolled over on his stomach, burying his head under his arms. Sleep usually came to him in efficient, dreamless bursts, and he could already tell that the ordeal of that insane dream would leave him exhausted and irritated for the rest of the day. Already, the nightmare was fading into oblivion, but he distinctly remembered drumming, and flames, and a dark-eyed dancer who’d provoked insatiable lust in him. Awareness languidly returned to his body and he realised he had grown painfully hard for the apparition in his dream. Half-asleep still, Bhaltair mindlessly reached for his throbbing cock, desperate for some form of release. But suddenly, he became aware of a distinct sensation around his wrist, as if cool fingers were clasping it in a secure grip. Startled and uncomprehending, he sat up and peered at his forearm until memories of the previous evening rushed back through the haze of confusion in his mind.

Silvana’s engagement band appeared impossibly white and pure against the grey of his skin. Bhaltair ran his thumb along the bracelet to feel its texture. It was made of soft fabric and sleek, silky thread, beautifully woven together in a complex braid. The trinket was far too delicate and completely out of place on a warrior’s wrist, but the Samodiva had asked him to wear it as a sign of commitment. He had been confused by the request, but agreed to honour her traditions. It was all the same to him, after all - the Fae did not wear jewellery to indicate betrothal or marriage. According to their laws, the act of signing a wedding agreement and thus pledging one’s loyalty to another was far more binding than a symbolic exchange of trinkets. Still, for some reason, Bhaltair wondered whether Silvana could sense his presence through the wristband. It was a silly notion, of course, but then again, the cool softness of the bracelet reminded him of his betrothed's touch. He recalled holding her small hands in his, so immaculately pale and delicate that he had stupidly wondered whether she might accidentally cut herself against the roughness of his stubble and the coarse ridges of his scars. After signing the engagement contract, she’d tied the bracelet around his wrist and kissed him, and her kiss had been just as tender and tantalising as the rest of her. Bhaltair, delirious with happiness, suddenly felt perfectly content to be completely at the mercy of the most beautiful woman he had ever beheld in his entire life. There was an unusual lightness in his heart, and the trance-like fascination with her beauty provoked a desire to spend the rest of his life watching her Dance. He wanted to find her right away, and beg her for the honour of another porcelain kiss, and for just one more pristine, silky caress. He would go out looking for a gift to present her with, though nothing in the Realm of Old could possibly be pure and perfect enough for her!

But Bhaltair’s pondering over potential presents for his fiancée came to a rapid halt when a new feeling tickled him with its presence. It was not pristine coolness, but a fleeting sense of heat that pulsed in his wing joints and palpitated along the length his spine. An involuntary quiver of his wings made him moan in frustration and anger infused his blood when he recognised the source. Although his sensitive wing joints were protected by thick, fibrous tissue, although a day had passed since the blasted tournament, he still felt the impression of Marianne’s damn hands. It was infuriating!  _She_ had been infuriating, with her legs around him, trying to ride him as if he were a common bloody _eithre_. And worst of all, in the heat of the fight, he had wanted nothing more than to spread his wings for her and let her run her fingers along every plate and ridge, until she'd memorised parts of him that had never been touched by another.

_Idiot!_ Of course he would do no such thing! He would be the laughing stock of every winged goblin in existence if he submitted to such humiliation. And besides, she would never stand for any of it. For six fucking years he had trained her, sparred with her, critiqued her technique, praised her sparingly and he’d kept his bloody hands off her. He never rushed to apologise when he landed a hit because he had to make her think her defence needed work, and thus conceal the fact that he always fought dirty with her in order to provoke any sort of reaction other than poised determination. For some inexplicable reason, he wanted her anger. He suddenly longed to spar with her without armour and without an audience – just the two of them, out of the Keep, each trying to trick the other into submission. And in such a fight, he would gladly submit to her. He would lie on his back with his wings underneath him, completely vulnerable, and he would let her climb over him and ride him to her heart’s content. And if she felt truly brave, he would take her up into the sky and share with her the incredible thrill of fucking mid-flight. He imagined her blunt, human teeth sinking into his shoulder and it made him want to break down the walls just to get to her. 

_Disgusting old fool!_ Not that long ago, she had been a child to him. How had she suddenly become the protagonist of his depraved fantasies? Sure, she had grown into an attractive woman, but so had many others, and he did not lust after them! Then again, no one else had stood up to him during the tournament. Perhaps that was the source of his sudden randiness – her challenge, her confidence, and her sheer insolence had all made him dizzy, and the incredible smell of her, like wildfire and life, and red, human blood… She did not belong on his back. She belonged on his throne, where he could kneel before her, take her legs over his shoulder and slide his tongue inside her...

Bhaltair growled and slashed at the bed, shredding the ruined covers. His kingdom was about to solidify the peace with the Tengri through his own betrothal, the very Vila of the Samodivi wanted him as her husband, and here he was, pathetically smouldering over a human! What had gone wrong with him in the course of one fucking night? It must have been the lack of proper sleep – his body was not fully rested and that somehow made his unfocused mind conjure up insane imagery to make some sense of the world. All he had to do was cool off, get someone to tidy up his bed, find some kind of headache relief tonic and go about his duties. After coming back to his senses with no small degree of effort, Bhaltair viciously shoved all unseemly thoughts from his mind and threw himself into preparations for the upcoming days. His plan required precision and concentration, which made the hours practically fly as he plotted and schemed. At some point, two of his advisors came to ask his permission to officially announce the engagement, but he waved them off with little care for such trivial nonsense. His thoughts were elsewhere. At last, some time after sunset, Bhaltair summoned the tournament finalists to the throne room. Sick and tired of parading around in polished silver like a fucking firefly, he donned his black battle armour and went to meet his finest soldiers.

His shaky resolve, already brittle from worry and frustration, nearly crumbled at the sight of them. Like him, they had worn their proper battle uniforms. The Fae insignia gleamed proudly on their chests, and the way they held themselves seemed to echo his own uncertain sense of impending threat. Halthor had changed into his Urisk form and his elongated ears twitched, alert to every sound. Neryssa’s wild, red curls were braided and the intricate tattoos that covered her arms from shoulders to wrists seemed to shimmer with the glow of her sorcery. And even though he had seen Marianne in her dark-violet armour a hundred times before, the mere sight of her suddenly drove him to near-madness with all the effort that it took the gale to lift a leaf. Was that drumming he could hear, or was it just his own pathetic, ridiculous heart? Bhaltair bit his tongue until he tasted blood and forced his thoughts away from insanity.

“Before I start, you should know that there is an obscuring glamour placed on this room, so no one will hear us speak,” he began. “But I still expect what is said among us tonight to remain among us. Is that understood?”

The soldiers agreed in unison.

“Very good. The three of you are here because you reached the final round of the tournament and proved yourselves uniquely clever, capable, determined and daring. Unfortunately, I must now ask you to use those qualities outside of the safety of a competition. And outside of the safety of Boglach Dorch.”

Bhaltair paused and took a long look at them. Their faces were calm, but their eyes were like steel. It was with a great deal of effort that he prevented himself from staring at Marianne any longer than the others. His claws began to extend and he held his hands behind his back. 

“I am not going to sugarcoat this for you,” he continued. “We are under attack. We have been for a while now. It all began with a single incident near the northern border over six years ago, when two Fae soldiers were killed. Since then, eight similar attacks have taken place along the border, always against a single soldier or a small, isolated group, and always without any trace of the killer.”

“Do the Tengri know of these attacks, Sire?” asked Neryssa.  

“They do. Some of their own have also been killed in a similar way, on the other side of the river.”

“Killed by what?” asked Marianne.

“Some Fae, me included, initially suspected the Volkolak. At the time, I did not want to make a formal accusation without solid evidence – it would have been detrimental for the Peace Treaty. But once the Healer Griselda investigated the wounds…”

“It was Volkolak, wasn’t it!” snarled Halthor.

“No. It was not. We don’t know what it was. The wounds were inflicted by sharp teeth, but that is hardly enough proof for Volkolak involvement. Other Healers were also consulted, but to no avail. So far, all they have been able to sense is that that the attacks are always completely unexpected and happen so quickly that the soldiers barely have time to react. But the worrying thing is that, despite all our efforts, the attackers remain unknown to us. Whoever they are, whatever they are, they have found a way of hiding from the Healers' visions. So far, no Healer, Fae or Tengri, has succeeded in identifying the killers as anything more than shapeless shadows.”

“What sort of foul sorcery can tamper with a Healer’s vision?” gasped Neryssa.

“I don’t know,” said Bhaltair, equally appalled. “No one knows. It is unheard of! But the Healers agree on one thing – it is revolting, and it sickens them, and it is not of the Fae. For six years, we have banged our heads against the wall looking for answers. Each time a Healer uses their vision on a wound inflicted by this shadow, they fall ill. The illness passes after a day or so, but its source cannot be determined and no amount of Healing seems to affect it. I don't have to tell you that this is no simple matter. We have gone through every book, looked through every archive that exists, sent for information to every corner of the Realm, but we have found nothing! And I, for one, am sick of it. I will not lose another soldier to a shade without a name, and I'll be damned before I let another Healer fall ill because of this madness!”

Anger had seeped into his voice and was instantly reflected in the eyes of his warriors. Neryssa’s tattoos came to life, twisting like snakes along her skin. Halthor’s pupils grew enormous, and he appeared ready to charge at anything that came at him.

“How can we help, Sire?” he asked.

“You have heard by now that I am engaged to Lady Silvana of the Samodivi. She came to me for aid, because all the attacks on the Tengri side have been targeted exclusively at her people, many of whom are gifted Healers. As their Vila, she has a strong position before the Tengri Grand Council. She is also aware that some Tengri are keen to blame the Changelings for these attacks, the way that we have been keen to blame the Volkolak. But most importantly, she agrees with me that this is no time to endanger the peace, and that our best chance to find the real attackers is to stand united. Our marriage bond will serve to strengthen the union of our factions.”

Bhaltair could not resist any further and stole a glance at Marianne. Her face was calm and inscrutable. The Bog King was not sure what he'd expected to find in her expression, or why he suddenly felt disappointed, but it only served to enflame the fury that had been stirring inside him for six long years.

“Lady Silvana is a strong, capable leader,” he declared. “She called for a meeting of the Tengri Grand Council, and invited me as her consort and as a representative of the Fae. Together, we will try to convince the Council to wake Queen Pagganeé, the greatest Healer of all. A power strong enough to trick and endanger our Healers is without a doubt threatening to us all, and if someone knows how to stop this, it will be the Zmey Queen. This is where you come in. I ask that you join me as my delegates."

He paused again, gauging their reaction. Quiet though they were, they seemed uncertain. Bhaltair would be too, in their position. Very few Fae ever went to the Tengri mountains, and none had ever been welcomed to the seat of the Grand Council before.

“I am going to be very honest with you,” he said, deciding to speak plainly. “Despite Lady Silvana’s efforts to promote peaceful cooperation, I do not trust that the Tengri Grand Council has her best interest at heart. They are a bunch of two-faced shits who have been known to take sides unfairly, to cover up conflicts and to take liberties with their authority. Furthermore, they don’t give a toss about the Fae. Unfortunately, however, according to Tengri tradition, they are the only ones with the the power to wake Pagganeé from the Zmey's Sleep of Centuries. None of that has ever concerned me before, because the Fae of Boglach Dorch have never been involved in the Tengri's scheming. But we are now, and so is my future wife, which means that I will not sit quietly and watch them sweep these attacks under the carpet. That being said, I am damn certain that my behaviour will be closely monitored from the moment I arrive at Trakea Citadel. The Tengri are just as suspicious of me as I am of them, and a single betrothal won’t magically negate thousands of years of mistrust. You, however, will have a bit more freedom. I want you to pose as members of my diplomatic convoy and to become my eyes and ears in that citadel. You must find a way to enter the private quarters of the Grand Council members and look for anything that might help us find out who the attackers are, what kind of sorcery it is that they use to hide from the Healers, and most importantly, how much do the Tengri really know about this bloody mess.”

It was becoming increasingly difficult to continue. Bhaltair had long abandoned any notions of keeping up appearances before his warriors, but telling them to their faces that he was going to put their lives in peril was making it hard to breathe.

“I am warning you now,” he began slowly. “This will be more dangerous than anything you have faced before. The tournament was a play-battle in comparison. Your training has been thorough and your skills are splendid, but this is going to be _real._ And if you get caught, it will get ugly fast. At best, you can hope to be attacked on the spot. At worst… If the Tengri find out that I am bringing spies into their sacred Trakea Citadel, they will come at the Fae with all they’ve got. Which means that if you get caught, I must renounce any connection to you and any knowledge of your actions, or risk the loss of thousands of innocent lives. I will not be the Bog King who brings war back to this kingdom! Therefore, my instructions are as follows: _do not_ get caught! Be smart. And if being smart doesn’t work, be deadly. If you have to kill someone to protect yourselves and your mission, do it.”

“But Sire, we have never actually… killed,” muttered Neryssa.

“I know. Which is why I am giving you the option to refuse. You are my finest warriors, and I will protect you to the best of my ability, but I need you to understand that ultimately, you will be on your own. Do you need some time to think this over?”

The three soldiers exchanged inscrutable looks, communicating in some silent, secret manner and confirming amongst themselves the decision they were about to make. Then, as one, they stood to attention, fists over their hearts in salute.

“I will follow you, for the Fae!” declared Halthor.

“I will follow you, for the Fae!” announced Neryssa.

“I will follow you, for the Fae,” promised Marianne. 

Without hesitation, they offered him their loyalty and their lives. Bhaltair could not have been more humbled by their decisiveness. He immediately felt a fresh onslaught of doubt and anxiety, as well as overwhelming urge to drag them to the Keep’s tallest tower and lock them up in there for the rest of their bloody lives, and beat some sense of self-preservation into their thick heads.

“It is agreed then,” he said. “You will be briefed on the details shortly. We leave in a week, so take all the time you can to study up on Tengri culture, customs, traditions and rituals. Learn about their weapons and styles of combat, in case things do get ugly, but do not forget that you are coming with me in the capacity of diplomats, not soldiers. And one more thing… I am asking you to take an enormous personal risk. It would be useless to try and explain how much I appreciate what you have agreed to do for me, but allow me to thank you on behalf of all the Fae who will never know what you are doing in order to protect them. I will never forget your commitment.”

They each gave him a respectful nod and prepared to leave. Bhaltair found himself in the peculiar position of hoping for less loyal soldiers, who would question him and make impossible demands for rewards before agreeing to risk their lives. After centuries of peace, many Fae had grown too comfortable and secure in their position, and were not truly aware of how easily their lives could be snapped from them. Bhaltair was determined to keep it that way.

“Lady Marianne, may I have a word?” he heard himself blurt.

The human turned back to face him, her expression infuriatingly composed. Bhaltair noticed that he had begun to nervously shift on his feet like a fucking child, and there was something he'd wanted to say to her, but her damn amber eyes were on him, and the flames of her gaze consumed him without a shred of mercy.

“Was there something you needed from me, Sire?” she asked, ever so evenly.

_Your hands on my fucking wings_ , he yearned to scream. Instead, he collected himself and delivered the information he had prepared.

“You being human makes your involvement in this mission more dangerous. It will draw suspicion if the Fae have a human in their diplomatic convoy, and the Tengri are not overly fond of your people to begin with. But there is absolutely no question that your place is by my side - you earned it in the tournament, and no one would ever doubt it. We will take precautions to disguise your origins. I will have a glamour amulet prepared for you to make you appear Sidhe, but you must still be on your guard every single moment. For one thing, the colour of your blood would be a dead giveaway, because most Tengri have blue blood, like the Fae. In other words, no one must see you bleed and live to tell the tale. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Sire. Thank you for your concern.”

His tone inadvertently softened in her presence. They had spoken a lot at first, when she'd first stumbled into his life. She’d needed to learn all about his world in order to become part of it, and he had been downright impressed by the sheer speed with which she'd picked up the Fae language and absorbed knowledge about his culture. Gradually, however, she'd grown older and a strange coldness had replaced her eager curiosity. Bhaltair had sensed her need to be treated just the same as everyone else and had kept his distance. 

“I hope… I hope you enjoyed it. The banquet. Last night.” he said. He was stumbling over his words like a bloody eejit, but was reluctant to let her go without as much as an attempt at a civil conversation. He had nearly broken her ribs with his staff, after all - it was the very least he could do without crossing the unspoken boundaries that she'd insisted on drawing between them. 

“It was a lovely evening,” said Marianne politely, her back perfectly straight. “I offer my congratulations to you and your fiancée, Sire. I wish you every happiness.”

“I told you there is no need to call me sire,” he snapped, irate. 

“And I asked you not to treat me differently from the rest of your soldiers.”

“But you are different!”

A frown, barely noticeable, twisted her features before she schooled them back into serene attentiveness. When did she become such a fucking expert at controlling herself, when mere hours ago she'd fought him like a wild beast for a meaningless trophy? The need to provoke a reaction out of her was sharp and persistent in Bhaltair, even if the reason for it eluded him.

“Have it yer way then, Lady de Lacy,” he grated. “Wanna be treated like all the others? Fine! Because if you ever touch my wings again without permission, I will rip your fucking hands off!”

“Duly noted, _Sire_ ,” she snarled back, giving him a distant glimpse of the fire that he craved with his entire being. _Damn her!_ The need to anger her and the eagerness to throw himself at her feet collided into a single, monstrous urge that he could not begin to comprehend. Blood welled in his fists when his claws cut into his palms. 

“I will have someone bring you your glamour amulet,” he barked. “Dismissed!”

She gave him the most acerbic salute he had ever seen and left without a word. But her scent lingered, like a phantom that mocked him – _had he always been aware of her scent?_ – and before long, Bhaltair was running out of the Keep and taking to the sky, flying over the forest with no direction or destination in mind, just desperate for a place where he could close his eyes and not see her before him, like a vision in flames. He flew for what felt like hours, hoping that the fresh air would ease the burning sensation along his spine, but all it seemed to achieve was exacerbate his lust. His thoughts were a mess as he returned to the Keep, and he could not afford to be a mess, not when he had just asked his best warriors to follow him into the eye of the storm, among enemies they had never faced before. Exhausted and more furious than he could ever remember being, he landed on the balcony that spanned his chambers and leaned against the stone bannister to rest his wings. How on earth was he supposed to face his fiancée in the morning, when his thoughts were so preoccupied by another? How was he meant to honour the engagement bond and uphold the peace?

“Val-teer? Is that you?”

The crystal voice startled him at first, but then washed over him like a cool caress, making his name sound foreign and beautiful. Bhaltair turned towards the sound and pulled aside the diaphanous curtains that swung over the windows of his bedroom. The sight he beheld was completely breathtaking. Floating lights glittered against the ceiling, making it indistinguishable from the starlit sky. Moonbeams shone in crepuscular rays through the windows and gathered in a pool of light over the large bed that dominated the room. And right there, reclining casually against a stack of pillows, Silvana awaited. The light reflected off the silky surface of her skin and turned her into an apparition, as if the rest of the world had been submerged into darkness and she had become the single source of life and beauty to rule over all that existed. Bhaltair was paralysed. A soft, cool blankness descended over his mind, as if he had drunk an entire jug of wine, and although he was angry and anxious over something, he could not quite recall what it was.

“There you are! I wondered where you had gone,” said Silvana, a dazzling smile spilling over her lips. She rose from the bed and slowly walked towards him, each movement graceful and nimble. Bhaltair was captivated by her flowing, white dress, which wrapped around her slender frame like some ethereal creature of silk and perfection that existed only to caress her skin. With every step she took, it swirled around her, almost transparent in the moonlight, then opaque once again, teasing him. Silvana seemed to move outside the reign of time and was very unexpectedly right before him, incredibly close, her elegant finger tracing the bracelet around his wrist. A fresh chill spread along his forearm and began to chase away all unwelcome heat.

“It makes me so happy that you honour our union by wearing my gift,” she said, peaking at him through lowered lashes. Her eyes were pale, almost silver, and looking into them brought a sense of calm and lightness to his heart. His mind sank deeper into the sublime tranquility of her presence, and although he was sure he had something important on his mind, worrying over it seemed a pointless waste of time and energy, now that she was with him.

“It is good to see you, Lady Silvana,” he said.

“I think we can dispense with such formalities, don't you? You are to be my husband, after all.”

Her fingers were very distracting as they toyed with the bracelet. The sleek fabric of her dress cascaded down her shoulders and although Bhaltair could not look away from her enchanting eyes, he kept imagining how smooth and silky the white material must feel against her breasts, gliding over her nipples with every motion.  

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” he asked.

There went her eyes again, shyly peering at him, making him forget why he had gone out for such a long flight in the first place, when he should have been spending every waking moment in her company. She lifted herself on her tiptoes and her lips were so dangerously close…

“I missed you,” she whispered in his ear and placed a brief kiss on his neck. It seemed the most logical, reasonable answer. Her cool fingers traced the sharp line of his jaw, then his lips. He was reminded of her tantalising kiss from the previous night and wanted to beg her for more.

“It is tradition for a Samodiva to Dance for her husband on their wedding night,” murmured Silvana. “I know we are not yet married, but I wanted so very much to Dance, just for you. Will you let me break tradition? Please, Bhaltair?”

There was a reason to say no. It was just on the edge of his mind, like a shadow in his peripheral vision. But when Silvana’s perfect fingers slid down his chest to trace the curve at the front of his breeches, he could no longer think. Bhaltair did not know how he ended up on the bed, or when the various pieces of his armour met the floor. All he knew was that Silvana was Dancing just for him, and her body was swaying and twisting without need for music or rhythm. Her airy, living dress slid off one pale shoulder, then the other, and was soon a weightless pile of silk on the floor. She approached him again, her hips swinging suggestively, and then leisurely climbed over him. He was not sure whether he should touch her, but she made the decision for him and simply took his hands, placed them over the narrow curve of her waist and then moved them over her full breasts. How impossibly perfect her skin was under his calloused fingers, how immaculate… That such a beautiful, magnificent creature should want him – a harsh, unrefined half-goblin with grey skin, sharp, crooked teeth and large, rough hands – seemed suddenly incomprehensible. But he had no time to dwell on it, because her lips found his in a deep, narcotic kiss that prohibited the continuation of any thought. Nothing else existed for the Bog King. There was only Silvana, with her pale, silver eyes – _too pale, wrong!_ – gently guiding him onto his back – _not like this, not with her!_ – holding his wrists firmly over his head and trapping his wings – _no, wrong!_ – and then he was inside her. She began to move over him in yet another sensual Dance, and her voice when she moaned for him and cried his name was just as beautiful as when she sang...

Until all memories of drums faded from his mind.

Until all fiery dreams melted from his wings.

Until the ecstasy of her Dance overwhelmed him and pulled him into the embrace of cool, silken darkness.

 

 

 * * * *

 

 

“Wait, m’lady, your gloves will tear!”

_Let them_ , thought Dawn and ripped a twig of holly from the thorny bush. Her soft kid gloves did not tear, to her annoyance. She ought to take them off and pick holly with her bare hands, until they were raw and bloody. Then the obtuse old nurse would be in trouble! And her father might even choose to listen for once, though Dawn would probably need to consider something far more drastic than a few scratches to get his attention. Enraged, she shoved her hands deep into the bush, grabbed hold of a thick branch, and tried to pull it out. Thorns caught in the sleeves of her dress, but the stupid branch refused to yield to her assault. She squeezed her hands tighter around it, relishing the sting of a thorn as it cut through the leather of her gloves and pierced her palm.

“Are you alright, Lady Dawn?”

It was a different voice – not the grating yammer of the nurse, but a soft, gentle sound, full of concern.

“Oh no, did it prick you? Here, let me help.”

Sunny knelt next to her in the snow, inserted his gloveless hands in the labyrinth of holly and deftly freed Dawn’s sleeves from the clasp of the thorns. Her gloves were indeed torn, just as she’d wanted. A wave of shame washed over her for being so careless with her possessions and so easily angered.

“Your hand is bleeding,” said Sunny.

“No, merely a scratch…”

But Sunny was already holding her hand in his and gently removing her ruined glove. A small puddle of blood had gathered inside her palm and some of it dripped onto the snow. Guilt washed over Dawn and she refused to meet Sunny’s eyes, but he did not say a word of reproach – he simply took a piece of cloth out of the leather satchel around his waist and quickly tore it to strips. Before long, Dawn’s hand had been bandaged with the utmost care and tenderness.

“Thank you,” she muttered and summoned the strength to look at him. A gentle smile played on the acolyte’s lips, and freckles of gold glinted in the brown of his eyes. At sixteen, he had not yet lost the softness of his cheeks and the tonsure made him seem even younger, but Dawn did not mind. She would still miss him terribly when she went off to Northumberland.

“I brought some shears for you,” he announced. He handed them to her like an offering, as if they were his most precious possession. “It will make it easier to gather the holly without hurting yourself.”

Dawn did not know what to say. Her eyes filled with tears, easily provoked by such a small gesture of consideration. Then she suddenly felt stupid for crying like a child in front of the acolyte and tried to make herself behave like a lady. Her charade must have been entirely unconvincing.

“My lady, please, tell me what pains you,” Sunny prompted softly.

“It is… I… I don’t…”

Dawn struggled to produce the words. She gazed around the clearing, looking for a source of strength, or inspiration, or simply a way to hide from the all-seeing warmth of his eyes. There were people all around, each of them occupied with whatever task they had been assigned. It was only three days till Christmas and the entire household had ventured outside in frantic preparation for the upcoming celebrations. Lord Roland had come to spend the holidays with Dawn and had taken her father out hunting. Roland was the best hunter in all the land, and his dogs were so gifted that King Edward himself had requested to borrow them for his hunting lodge. He had promised to give Dawn a puppy of her own and show her how to train it. But Dawn had not been allowed to stay with her fiancé – instead, she had been told to go with the women and gather holly and pine twigs to decorate the manor house and the chapel. Sunny had been sent to chaperone, while Father Roger was busy making visits around the estate and helping the local parish priest tend to the sick. Dawn’s nurse, surly and lazy, had abandoned the task of watching over her charge and had instead gone off to box the ears of two gossiping servant girls. Everyone else was far too busy to notice what Dawn was doing, which bought her a few quiet moments with Sunny. And with his kind eyes on her, she felt the urge to open her mouth and confide in him everything that bothered her. But how could she put her confused thoughts into words? He would proclaim her mad! And if her father found out, she would be in a great deal of trouble.

“I am not allowed to take Confession yet,” whispered Sunny, and Dawn realised he had also been looking around to check whether anyone was eavesdropping. “But I swear to you, Lady Dawn, that I will never share a word you say with anyone. I promise you, not as a priest, but as your friend.”

And how much she wanted to tell him! Perhaps she should begin with something simple, something she knew he would not find that strange. She stuck her hand under her cloak and pulled the rosary from her belt.

“My fiancé gave me this,” she said, and showed it to the acolyte. It was a lovely trinket made from polished jade beads, with a delicate silver cross hanging at one end.

“It is… a beautiful gift,” said Sunny.

“I should like to use it when I pray. But Nurse says that I do not pray correctly. She says that I should memorise the words of the Holy Scripture, otherwise God will punish me. But… I do not feel that God will listen if I speak words I do not understand.”

“How do you like to pray?”

“My si… _someone_ once told me that the best way to pray to God was to speak to Him as a friend, and confide in Him without thinking about the precise words. But… Nurse heard me do it the other day, and got very cross, and told me that God will not understand me if I do not speak His language.”

“That is not true!” exclaimed Sunny. “I do the same thing as you. Not during service, but when I am alone. I speak to God, as if He were sitting right there, beside me; as if he were my own father! God will listen to your prayers, my lady, however you decide to speak to Him. He is Father to us all, and would never disregard our voices, no matter the language. Whoever gave you that advice was right – you should speak to God as if He were your closest, most trusted friend.”

“You see, that is the problem,” continued Dawn, relieved. “The person who told me that… I often pray for her, when I speak to God as a friend. But… Sunny, I fear that God is not listening!”

“Why do you feel that way?”

“Because… because whenever I bring up that person in front of anyone else, they… they act as if… as if she never...”

“Do not be afraid to tell me, Dawn.”

Sunny, held her hand in his and gave it a gentle squeeze. Dawn decided to confide in him, as she had all her life. She took a deep breath and let her thoughts turn into words.

“When I speak about that person, everyone acts as if she does not exist. As if she never existed! Except my father, but all he ever says is that she has gone to Hell. But… I do not think that she has, Sunny! And look – this is her rosary! Roland gave it to me!”

She was trying her best to whisper, but her voice was becoming as mad and frenzied as her heart. Sunny was staring at her with concern and confusion in his eyes.

“I do not understand,” he said. “What person are you talking about?”

“My sister!” exclaimed Dawn. “My sister Marianne! Sunny, you must remember Marianne!”

“Your… sister?” said Sunny, even more puzzled. “But… Lady Dawn, I thought… I thought you were an only child. I thought your mother died in childbirth, and your father never married again.”

“No! You don’t understand! My mother did die in childbirth, but before that, she had Marianne! I have an older sister! Don’t you remember? She used to sit with the nurse when you came to visit, so that we could play together! She had long, brown hair and she used to tell me stories. She was married to Roland, and then she disappeared, but I still remember her. I know I have a sister, Sunny! And I know she is not in Hell!”

The confusion on Sunny’s face swiftly turned into fear. Dawn followed his frantic gaze and saw that the nurse was staring at her, as were several of the serving girls. She must have raised her voice without meaning to.

“Lady Dawn, I am so sorry, but… I have never met your sister,” mumbled Sunny. Dawn glared at him, feeling betrayed, frightened, and utterly alone. She rose to her feet and glared at the miserable acolyte.

“It is just as well that I am going to Northumberland in the spring, because I do not wish to see you again, Samuell. I wish to be left alone!”

She frowned at him sternly and then stormed off, ignoring his apologetic pleas and her nurse’s disgruntled warnings. Dawn did not want to be among any of them anymore, and did not care about Christmas celebrations, or the holly she had failed to pick. They were too slow to stop her from climbing onto her mare.

“I feel unwell and wish to lie indoors,” she announced and rode off, almost running over one of the red-eared serving girls. Out on the road, she galloped towards the manor house and relished the crisp, fresh air that cooled her face. But the satisfaction of her escape was short-lived - the road seemed to end before she’d even had the chance to wipe the tears that ran down her face. Thankfully, no one came after her. Even if they had, Dawn knew she would not get into any trouble for her actions. Her father seemed to forgive her all sorts of misgivings with ease, and he had grown particularly soft in the past few months. She wondered whether it was because of her upcoming twelfth birthday, which fell on the day of the Epiphany, or because she would be married in the spring and he would be left without a child in his home. Either way, even when she was in such a dire mood that she felt ashamed of her own wickedness, her father simply kissed her cheek and left her alone. Except when she mentioned Marianne. Then, he yelled at her and forbade her from ever speaking of her sister again.

Dawn crossed the empty courtyard and left her mare to one of the stable boys. She longed to be alone for just a bit longer and made her way inside the manor house, swiftly climbing the stairs up to her bedroom. The few servants who had remained inside were busily rushing around the corridors, cleaning, scrubbing and preparing rooms, and far too preoccupied to notice the distraught girl who walked past them. Dawn’s father had engaged the entire household, as well as some of the peasants who lived near the manor house, to prepare for the twelve days of Christmas celebrations. Roland and his family, as well as some of Lord Henry’s relatives, were all due to stay until after Epiphany, and there would be feasts, games and revelry for days. Dawn had been looking forward to her fiancé’s visit, eager to find out whether he would keep his promise and bring her a trinket as beautiful as she was. And indeed he had – several, in fact. But the only one Dawn cared about was her sister’s old rosary, which she had not seen in years. Lost and confused in the turmoil of her thoughts, she finally reached her room and closed herself inside. She wanted to be left alone in order to confide in the friend she trusted most of all, the way Marianne had taught her. Kneeling at the foot of the bed, the girl clasped the rosary, put her palms together, closed her eyes and began to softly whisper in prayer.

“Dear God, please forgive me, for I have sinned. I got very angry at Sunny today, and I feel awful. He was kind to me, and he tended to my hand, but I still snapped at him and told him I did not want to see him. It was not even true – of course I want to see him! I cannot imagine moving to Northumberland and nevr seeing him again. I ought to ask father to let him come with me. But I could not ask father for anything right now, because I disobeyed him again today and spoke to Sunny about Marianne. But he could not remember her, just like all the others! Just like Nurse, and the servants, and Father Roger. Why has everyone forgotten my sister? I know father remembers, but he will not let me speak of her, and he tells me she is in Hell. But I know she is not in Hell! She can’t be – Nurse says that Hell is full of torment and eternal suffering for those who sin. But I don’t think Marianne is suffering at all. When I see her in my sleep, she always looks so well! Her hair is short, and she carries swords like a knight, but she still laughs, and tells me stories. I do not remember much of them when I wake up, but I know that she is somewhere warm and beautiful, and that she flies on large birds. I remember that she promised to win a tournament in my name. But she has not come to me in a few nights now, and I miss her. I am so frightened that I might forget her, like all the others!”

She paused and took a deep breath, fighting the tears that welled in her eyes.

“God, please… please bring Marianne back. I know she did not go to Hell, and I think father knows too, but he will not tell me why I am forbidden from speaking about her! I know I should not be angry with father – he looks so tired and miserable all the time, and I feel sad for him, but I just wish he would tell me why no one remembers Marianne. I have not told anyone that she visits me in my dreams, though I really wanted to tell Sunny today, but he did not even believe me when I said I have a sister. I almost asked Roland, when he gave me her rosary. I had not seen it in so long, but I would recognise it anywhere. How could I not? Marianne always carried it with her! But when I told Roland that the rosary belonged to my sister, father got so very angry with me... I was sure he was going to box my ears in front of everyone! He called Nurse to take me away and I never got to speak to Roland about Marianne, or ask him if he remembers her. I must try to speak to him alone, away from father and the nurse. I am barely ever alone, but perhaps I will find some time when they are not paying attention, before the midnight Mass on Christmas Eve. Besides, Roland will be my husband soon, and a woman must have no secrets from her husband. He has been so sweet and kind to me, and he always talks about how much he loves me, and how beautiful Northumberland is. He has promised me a white stallion as a wedding gift, and a brooch of pure gold to always wear by my heart. Father told me to be grateful that such a handsome, desirable man would wait for me to be old enough for marriage. Still, I am a little bit frightened...”

Dawn paused to take a deep breath. She had not shared her fears with anyone, and it was difficult to put them into words. She began to count the beads of the rosary with her fingers, grateful for the distraction.

“I know it is a mortal sin to fear marriage,” she whispered. “But I am afraid that if I go to Northumberland with Roland, Marianne will not be able to find me in my sleep anymore. I miss her so much! It hurts to think of her, but I know my pain is nothing compared to what she must be feeling, so far away from home. Please, merciful Lord, show her the way and bring her back to me. And please, never let me forget her! To God’s mercy I commit my soul. Amen.”

The older Dawn grew, the more aware she became that praying no longer felt as comforting as it had when she was a child. Something had broken inside of her when Marianne disappeared all those years ago, and even though she had been too young to comprehend it at the time, her heart bore the wounds. And while it had once been enough to share her thoughts and feeling with God and ask for nothing else, Dawn found herself more and more unsatisfied with His silence.

She spent the time until Christmas Eve awaiting an opportunity to speak to Roland alone. Alas, it was nay impossible to walk through the house without running into at least five relatives and dozens of servants, and whenever she did see Roland, his faithful knights always surrounded him. Dawn tried her best to be quiet, polite and unobtrusive, hoping to pacify her nurse and fool her into carelessness. But the wicked woman was constantly by her side, lecturing her about a woman’s duty to be pure, obedient and faithful to her husband. They would all find out if she had been sullied, said the nurse. Lord Roland’s own physician would examine her after her birthday to confirm that she was pure, and if she was not, she would burn in Hell. Dawn was not sure what that meant, or how exactly one established a woman’s purity, but the nurse would not explain anything further. At last, after what felt like decades of waiting, Christmas Eve finally arrived. Dawn’s nurse dressed her in a light-blue kirtle with long, flowing sleeves and pinned a transparent veil over her hair in preparation for the feast. Her father came to inspect her, but instead of the usual smile he greeted her with her, his forehead creased in a critical frown.

“Get that thing off her hair!” he snarled at the nurse. “She’s not married yet – let her fiancé see what a beautiful bride he’s getting.”

And so, Dawn’s fair hair was put out on display, arranged to flow freely down her back. She wanted to ask why it was so important to show it off, but there was no chance to say anything, because she was soon whisked down to the main hall, where everyone had gathered to await Mass. A table had been laid out, laden with meats, breads, cakes and all sorts of treats. All of Dawn’s and Roland’s relatives were gathered around it, eating, drinking, and talking at the same time, loud enough to wake the dead. Around them, children played and screeched and servants rushed from one end of the hall to the other to bring more food and drink, not even caring that Mass had not been said yet. Dawn spared a thought for Sunny and Father Roger, who would be all alone in the cold Chapel until midnight, kneeling in front of the statue of Christ and praying for hours on end. But then, before she could even take a proper look around the room to locate Roland, a group of her cousins surrounded her like a flock of geese and began to chatter at her over each other. Dawn pretended to be paying attention to them in order to trick the nurse into leaving. Indeed, before long, the woman made her way to the table and began to stuff meat and cheese into her mouth, as if she had fasted for weeks. Relieved, Dawn showed her cousins the necklace Roland had given her, and while they fawned over it, she used their distraction to search the crowd for her fiancé’s golden locks and red, fur-lined cloak. It seemed as though the entire county had decided to spend the holidays at Grimsthorpe Hall, and she could barely make out anyone among the swarm of relatives, friends and servants who buzzed all around her. It was hopeless! But Dawn would not give up so easily - she might not get a chance to speak to Roland alone for a long while, and she needed to ask about Marianne. In a fit of genius, she gathered her cousins around her and told them how brave and valiant Roland was to still be holding his own against the Scots, and how she dearly wished to find him and give him a special boutonnière to wear while he was away from her. A chorus of over-excited girls squealed and giggled in unison, and although Dawn wanted to slap each and every one of them for drawing everyone’s attention, her anger turned to gratitude when she found out that yes, they had indeed seen Roland go outside towards the Chapel, perhaps to check on Father Roger. And yes, of course they would not tell anyone where she had gone – it was so exciting that she would present her groom with a secret present, to keep him safe from the Scots!

Surrounded by her faithful flock, Dawn snuck through the main hall, keeping an eye out for her father. Lord Henry was too preoccupied with his guests to notice anything, but Dawn would not tarry and risk his wrath. As soon as she was sure that no one would see her, she bolted out the door and into the snowy courtyard. The night was bitterly cold, and the frosty winter air bit through the thin material of her kirtle, but she had no time to go looking for a cloak. Instead, she made her way down the path that led from the manor house to the chapel, grateful for the torches that had been set out to light it. The entire family would soon walk it in a long procession to go to Mass, and Dawn hastened her pace, glancing behind her any sign of the nurse, or her father, or anyone else who would dare to keep her from stealing a few minutes alone with her fiancé. Roland ought to remember Marianne, thought Dawn. After all, they had been married! And besides, he was such a kind, generous man that he would never be angry with Dawn for asking him. Emboldened by such feverish thoughts, the girl bravely traversed the snow. But she was so intent on making sure nobody would follow her that she did not pay any attention to who walked ahead. Thus, she flew straight into Samuell’s arms when she clashed into him, halfway between the stables and the Chapel.

“Lady Dawn!” he gasped, holding her gently by the shoulders while she regained her balance. His eyes were round with fright, as if he had run into the Devil himself.

“Sunny! I need to speak with my fiancé immediately. Where is he?”

“My lady, please… I… he is…”

“Where is he? I must speak with him at once! I must ask him about my sister.”

“My lady – Dawn… please, wait…”

He was trying to hold her back! He was using his own body to prevent her from continuing on the path behind him and into the Chapel. How dare he! An unfamiliar sensation coursed through Dawn’s blood, a bitter, consuming anger that she had not known before. She lifted her hands, lodged them against the acolyte’s chest and pushed with all her might. Taken by surprise, Sunny stumbled backwards, slipped on the snowy ground and fell to the side, his legs helplessly tangled into the folds of his cassock. Dawn froze in her spot. The shock in Sunny’s eyes mirrored her own, and she was momentarily terrified by her own actions, but there was no time to think – the nurse could come out to look for her any moment, and she might miss Roland if she dallied any longer. Dawn gave Sunny an apologetic look and ran along the path, desperate for some kind of answer. But before she’d even gone five paces, she heard a strange noise coming from the stables. It sounded like the cry of some kind of animal, but then there was also a hushed conversation, and… was that Roland’s voice? He had gone to the stables! Dawn hurried towards him, even as she heard Sunny’s feet hit the ground with a sloppy, wet sound while he ran after her and begged her to wait. What was wrong with him? Dawn ignored his cries and entered the stables, deciding to wait quietly until Roland was alone. She would shoo Sunny away, and she would speak with her fiancé in private, and nothing in the world would stop her! But the further she went, the louder the peculiar noise became, and Dawn, suddenly frightened, stalked in the shadows until she could see what the fuss was about.

And indeed, inside one of the boxes, the Earl of Northumberland stood with his back to her and with a pair of bare legs wrapped around his waist. Dawn recognised the servant in his arms as one of her own household. She was holding her skirts up with one hand and had stuffed the other into her own mouth, which muffled the cries she made every time Roland moved his hips. Roland, for his part, did not appear particularly concerned about drawing attention and Dawn realised that the noise she had heard before was in fact his undignified grunting. It rang in her ears as if she had been slapped. Neither of the two noticed her presence, but she could not move and slip back outside – her feet had frozen to the ground and she found it impossible to look away from the curious scene. Dawn could not really understand what was happening, or why Roland’s handsome face was red, sweaty, and twisted in a grimace that resembled pain. All she knew was that the sight shocked and sickened her. Was this what happened between men and women? Surely not between husbands and wives – whatever it was that Roland was doing with the servant did not seemed at all like it belonged in the bond of holy matrimony. Would he want to do this with her, once they were married? Dawn could not even imagine partaking in something so crude and undignified. Perhaps it was simply one of those _dalliances_ she had heard of, the ones that men were apparently prone to, due to their nature. The servants whispered about such things occasionally, and Dawn had learnt that while a woman could not commit a greater sin than adultery, men would sometimes, through no fault of their own, be dragged into sin by the misdeeds of _fallen_ women. Was the servant a fallen woman? She seemed fairly unremarkable - she even wore a veil over her hair as if she were married, and was nothing like what Dawn imagined a fallen woman might look like. Mesmerised by the sight, the girl did not even notice that Sunny had crept up next to her, or that he was frantically trying to guide her away from the stables and out into the courtyard. After a moment, still aghast with shock and surprise, Dawn followed him and the two of them silently made their way back to the manor house. Sunny’s cassock was wet and filthy after she’d pushed him onto the snowy ground, and he would undoubtedly get in trouble with Father Roger if he did not change it before the Mass.

“I am sorry for pushing you,” she muttered.

“What? Forget about that! Lady Dawn, are you alright? Did you... I am so sorry that you saw…”

But he had no opportunity to explain what he was sorry for, because Dawn’s nurse was already waddling towards them, shouting at Dawn and threatening to box Sunny’s ears. She started an impassioned speech about how ladies of good breeding did not run from their chaperones or go about unattended to speak with common men. And for the first time in her life, Dawn refused to listen. The unfamiliar wrath she had felt before erupted once again in her chest. Not only had she failed to find out anything about her sister, but she’d also discovered that once she was married, her husband might want her to do vulgar, terrifying things she did not understand. All her life, Dawn had strived to be kind and polite, just like Marianne, but for some reason, on the night of Christ’s birth, she chose to let her anger prevail.

“Sunny is not a common man!” declared Dawn. “He is my friend. He will be my chaplain when I go to Northumberland after my wedding, and your services will no longer be required.”

“How dare you speak to me thus, you spoiled, horrid girl! I will tell your father about…”

“Shut up!” screeched Dawn. The nurse fell silent at once, startled by her charge’s anger. But Dawn would not stop.

“I am Lady Dawn de Lacy, mistress of this manor. And you are but a stupid, vile servant! If you ever say another unkind word about Samuell again, I will run straight to my father and I will tell him how you steal wine when you are not allowed, how you pinch me and pull my hair and how you gossip about him with the servants. And when I tell him that you meet in secret with his _privé_ , he will throw you of the house before morning!”

The nurse’s face grew pale, and then bright red. She huffed something under her breath, picked up her skirts and ran back into the house without another word. Dawn’s hands were shaking with some unfamiliar emotion that she could not control, and a maniacal smile spread over her lips. Next to her, Sunny stood motionless, struck dumb by her outburst.

“I meant it,” she said quietly. “About you becoming my chaplain. I know I have been wicked and unkind to you, but you have always been my closest friend. I do not want to go away without you. When Lady Ingrid came to visit us from Oxenford last spring, she brought her chaplain with her, and I want to bring you with me too. If I can convince my father to let you go… will you come with me to Northumberland, when I am married?”

Sunny grabbed her hands in his and squeezed them tightly. His eyes glittered with the fire from the torches, and the smile he gave her was the brightest, most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

“I would follow you anywhere, Lady Dawn. Anywhere!”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry that it took so long to post this, but things got rather busy on my end. I will try my best to get back to a more regular update routine, because I can't wait to tell the rest of this story. And thank you all so much for the comments and kudos!


	5. Chapter 5

_Out of my head. Out of my head, out of my head!_

But the Bog King refused to leave her thoughts. And on the back of her _eithre_ , with the Tengri mountains stretching ahead and the wind roaring in her ears, Marianne had no escape from the memory of his grating voice. She could just make out his silhouette up ahead, in the thick clouds of mist that surrounded the convoy. Silvana and her Samodivi sisters were flying close by, and the Bog King would occasionally glance at his fiancée, no doubt with that nauseating, smitten look on his face. The Samodivi had refused to fly on the Fae’s _eithre_ and had brought along their own transport: a flock of skeleton-thin creatures with burning yellow eyes and long, sharp ears. They had no wings, but instead galloped in mid-air on enormous hands and feet. Neryssa had called them _talasoni_ and had refused to go near them, claiming that their stench sickened her. Marianne, being human, was thankfully immune to their smell.

She was flying at the back of the convoy with the Cailleach, grateful to be away from the Samodivi. Perhaps their presence affected humans differently than Fae – their beauty still sparked overwhelming awe in her, but also provoked an undercurrent of rage and bloodlust. Luckily, Silvana et al. did not appear to have taken any notice whatsoever of her existence. They only had eyes for Bhaltair.

The air grew colder as the party flew higher up into the mountains, but Marianne welcomed the chill. She closed her eyes, knowing full well that her _eithre_ needed no guidance. The freedom of flight was amazing, and she wondered whether she would resemble an angel from the ground, high up on the back of the large, white bird. Perhaps, but then again, angels did not simply abandon their families in order to save their own hide. Angels did not shiver at the thought of returning where they belonged. Angels were not cowards! Six months separated Marianne from the end of her Contract of Service. Once the time passed, she would be free. That promise of freedom somehow terrified her more than the though of falling to her death from the back of the  _eithre_. Bhaltair had said that she would be welcome to stay in his Realm or leave it. Neither option appealed to her at present. There was nothing to keep her among the Fae, and each time she recalled her last conversation with the Bog King, she felt even less welcome. But to return…

The closer she came to the end of her seven years of service, the more often Marianne wondered if her beloved husband was still alive. In over six years, he could have died of smallpox, or cholera, or brain fever. He could have been killed in a raid, with a Scotsman’s axe buried in his head. He could have been impaled by a wild boar during a hunt, or torn apart by wolves. Regardless, part of him was certainly alive and well within her. He plagued her nightmares. He crept into her thoughts. Sometimes, his voice was so loud inside her head that only the violent clashing of swords could muffle it, and even then, he always returned, ready to remind her what she was, who she belonged to. In those moments, she refused to believe that he was dead. There could be no justice in that. When the nightmares became vivid enough to make her scream in her sleep, it was thoughts of revenge that brought her back to herself. But each time she tried to prepare for it, each time she imagined his face on a training dummy, cold, ruthless fear flooded her veins and she forgot how to move her arms. How could she defeat an enemy who made her so helpless, an enemy who lived under her very skin? How could she bring herself to leave the Fae Realm, when his shadow lurked behind every corner?

“Marianne! Marianne!”

Neryssa’s voice loudly dragged her from her thoughts. The Cailleach possessed an uncanny ability to sense when Marianne was tethering on the edge of despair. At present, she had brought her _eithre_ close to Marianne’s and was trying to make herself heard over the howling wind.

“Ask them how much longer! I can’t feel my ass anymore!”

“Can’t be far off now!” shouted Marianne, unwilling to pull forward and speak to the Bog King or his fiancée.

“We’ve been going for hours! I can’t see anything in this bloody fog!”

As if on cue, the mist suddenly cleared.

They were flying over a large stretch of pine forest. Jagged granite outcrops protruded from between the trees, and thick fog ghosted over them like a veil of smoke. The sky above was grey; the air was heavy with the promise of rain. And in the distance, beyond a bottomless gorge, Trakea Citadel rose in its full glory. Marianne took a strained breath, feeling instantly insignificant before the astounding stronghold. She had never seen a building of such monumental proportions. The Citadel possessed none of the elegance of Arisaig Keep. With sturdy, grey walls, jutting bastions and serrated towers, it was an unabashed parade of strength. Armies could vanquish from sheer fear in its imposing shadow. Not that any armies would ever reach the Citadel – the Tengri Mountains were practically impenetrable on foot.

The Bog King waved a command at the convoy and Marianne gently lowered her _eithre,_ soaring over a narrow stone bridge that spanned the gorge and led up to the Citadel’s courtyard. The ravine beneath was so deep that mist had settled heavily in its bottom. Marianne could not stop her eyes from rolling downwards. The distant echo of a river could be heard down from its depths, barely audible from such a spectacular height. Without intending to, Marianne started to lean to the side, slipping slowly from her saddle while the chasm beckoned her to let herself drop. Suddenly lightheaded, she wrapped her arms around the _eithre_ ’s strong neck and forced her eyes closed. She did not open them again until the bird had landed gently on solid ground, and it took her a few long moments to shake the irresistible pull of the gorge. How many careless wanderers had fallen victim to it? Everyone knew that the Tengri Mountains were a treacherous place, where death awaited behind every corner. At the edge of the bridge, with the distant river all but whispering her name, Marianne came to realise that danger was knitted into the very fabric of the land. It was woven in the crisp air, in the mist that clung to the trees, and in the distant song of the river. 

A strong hand on her shoulder made her jump.

“Are you feeling alright?” whispered Neryssa. “You’re looking very pale.”

“It’s… it’s probably just this amulet” mumbled Marianne, without conviction. The trinket had glamoured her human features, giving her a Sidhe’s fair, brilliant complexion and elongated, delicately pointed ears. Neryssa had already made every possible joke about her altered appearance, adding unique insight about the amulet’s ability to improve the flexibility of the spine, so as to make it possible to effortlessly insert one’s head up one’s rear end. But whatever glamour concealed her human origin, Marianne was sure it had nothing to do with the ominous sense of threat that ghosted over her skin. Could the others not feel it? Did the mountain not call out to them, as it did to her?

“Urgh, those _talasoni_ stink like you wouldn’t believe!” hissed Neryssa.

“How come you’re able to smell them and I’m not?” Marianne did not care too much about the mechanics of the Cailleach’s olfaction, but needed something to distract her.

“It must be the sorcery that surrounds them,” mused Neryssa. “Funny, you know. They might have been human, once.”

            Marianne took a long look at one of the skeletal creatures, with its scorched-black skin, protruding joints and spider webs of hair hanging limply from its scalp. Up close it looked terrifying, but nowhere near human.

“What happened to them?” she asked.

“No one knows for sure how they came to be. But one Fae historian speculated that they are the remains of immured humans.”

“Immured?”

“Walled in. Apparently, it is a custom among some humans to wall a living sacrifice into a building. Makes the foundations stronger – so the legend goes.”

“That’s horrid!”

“That’s humans for you. No offence intended…”

“None taken!”

“Anyway, the historian thought that the Tengri use some kind of sorcery to pull out what remains of the immured humans once they die – their life essence, or something like that. That is how a _talason_ is made. Some of them go off to haunt whatever building they were walled into. But they can traverse through air, which makes them good for transport. Like I said, it might just be legend.”

 _It had better be_ , thought Marianne while one of the Samodivi ruthlessly kicked a  _talason_ for trying to touch her flowing dress. Bhaltair paid no attention whatsoever – he was too engrossed in holding Silvana’s hand, undoubtedly muttering love-struck nonsense of praise to her. Marianne clenched her teeth and tore her eyes away. The rest of the convoy had begun to make their way into the Citadel’s courtyard, through an imposing front gate. The Fae delegation consisted of the Bog King, two of his Goblin advisors, the three tournament finalists, a Sidhe historian and a Healer. Halthor, Neryssa and Marianne had been required to wear regular clothing, rather than armour. Marianne sourly missed her battle attire, which fit like a second skin and could stop any blade. But worst of all, she missed her swords. Weapons were not allowed in Trakea Citadel. It was a sacred haven of peace and order, not to be sullied by violence. If what she’d read about the Tengri was true, then that rule was utterly preposterous. According to her books, Volkolak could shift into wolf-like beasts, with claws the size of daggers and teeth that could slash through tree bark. Zmey could assume a dragon-like form, with enormous spiked wings and thick, impenetrable scales. Samodivi, to Marianne’s immense frustration, were barely ever mentioned in books. But based on her own observations, they did not appear to even need weapons. They only had to sing and dance, and swing their hair to turn even the most harsh, virile creature into a hopeless, meek, subservient...

Someone whined pitifully behind her. She turned to look, and came face to face with a pale, terrified Halthor. The Urisk was shaking, eyes wide and unseeing. Lauchlan was at his side, subtly providing support. The Urisk was gripping the Healer’s forearm, for once sincerely grateful for the assistance. Halthor despised flying – it seemed to be a common symptom among Changelings. . But there was no better way to reach the Citadel through the treacherous terrain, and the Urisk had resorted to taking a calming tonic from Lauchlan in order to make the journey. Still, going over the gorge must have been too overwhelming an experience, even for Lauchlan’s pharmaceuticals. Marianne wondered whether the crossing had affected Halthor in the same way it had her, and made a note to ask him about it once he came to his senses.

But that would have to wait, because as soon as the Fae delegation entered the courtyard, a group of about six Samodivi glided to them, each more surreally beautiful than the next. Their resemblance to Silvana was striking. Perhaps there was some genuine familial relationship between most Samodivi after all. The glorious creatures offered respectful greetings to Bhaltair, completely ignored everyone else in the Fae party and began to chatter to Silvana in a language that was melodic enough to put nightingale song to shame. The Vila excused herself and followed her sisters inside the Citadel, not before receiving a kiss on the hand from the Bog King. But Marianne did not have much opportunity to fume, because as soon as the Samodivi disappeared, another group of Tengri replaced them. And while Silvana’s brethren unfailingly enchanted with their striking beauty, the three newcomers looked positively menacing.

“Volkolak,” hissed Halthor.

All the Fae stood to attention, as if preparing for combat. Even Marianne felt a chill run down her spine, and wished dearly for the comforting weight of her swords. The newcomers were led by a man as tall as Bhaltair, and at least twice as wide. The elegant attire he wore could not conceal the raw strength in his broad, thickly muscled frame.

“King Bhaltair of Boglach Dorch,” he said in a booming voice, and the hard roll of his _r_ s rumbled deep in his chest. “I haven’t seen you since your coronation, my dear friend.”

“Kagan Yaruslav. It is good to see you,” replied Bhaltair, and the strain in his expression did not escape Marianne. The two men grasped each other’s forearms in greeting, and the Kagan extended a polite welcome to the rest of the Fae.

“You remember my daughter Vera and my son Boril,” he said, gesturing to the other two.

Neither of the young Volkolak appeared to be much older than Marianne, but compared to her, they looked enormous. Boril resembled his father almost to the letter, with dark eyes and ink-black hair to his shoulders. His was wearing a sleeveless tunic, which displayed powerful arms covered in intricate tattoos. Vera was only negligibly shorter than her brother, with proud, regal features and bright, piercing eyes. She smiled at the Bog King, brazenly displaying long, pointed fangs. Marianne did not miss the insincere curve of her lips.

“Congratulations on your engagement,” beamed Yaruslav. “The Lady Silvana must be thrilled to have made such an excellent bond. Rumour has it that her domain has been weakened by the recent attacks.”

“I don’t put much weight in rumour, as you well know." The Bog King's tone was measured but curt. 

“Nobody puts weight in rumour, Bhaltair. We just listen out for it.”

“I hope the Volkolak will also listen to our case when the Grand Council gathers tomorrow.”

“You meant to say Silvana’s case, don’t you?” sniggered Yaruslav. “I understand that your Vila brought you along as a consort. Yet another of those weightless rumours, you see.”

An angry tremor went through Bhaltair’s wings. The Kagan pretended not to notice.

“Come, my friend,” he said. “Let us go inside and catch up – it has been many long years. And your Fae seem like they can use a rest before the banquet.”

With his hand on Bhaltair’s shoulder, Yaruslav led them inside. Marianne hoped the obnoxious Volkolak would cut himself on the razor-sharp edges of Bhaltair’s wings. The Kagan’s children walked behind their father, whispering frantically to each other. Occasionally, they turned around to steal glimpses at the Fae. Marianne noticed that the young Volkolak woman was wearing an archer’s leather bracers and had several armband tattoos on her upper arm. She recalled reading about the social significance of Volkolak’s tattoos, but was too far away to try and decipher the elaborate runic script.  

“Can you _smell_ her?” whispered Neryssa. She seemed enchanted and blind to her surroundings.

“Vera? No, I can’t.”

“She smells like… like… I can’t even describe it. It’s not sorcery, but… Fuck, she smells so good it makes me stupid.”

“I never knew the Cailleachan had such a… discriminating sense of smell,” quipped Marianne.

“Well, right now, you stink like a damn Sidhe.”

“I’m not…”

“ _Lady Neryssa of the Cailleachan?_ ”

Their conversation was interrupted by the stunning Volkolak woman. She introduced herself to Neryssa and Marianne with a respectful bow.

“I am Vera, Ichihi-Kagan of Mount Prynea. I have heard much about your people, but have never met a Cailleach.”

“And I have never met a Volkolak,” replied Neryssa.

“No doubt you have heard all sorts of horrors about us, just as we have heard many about you. All nonsense, to be sure.”

“Indeed. Heaps of gory, murderous nonsense.”

            Vera laughed. Four sets of sharp fangs gleamed in her broad smile. It was astonishing: she possessed none of the ethereal grace of the Samodivi, yet her majestic presence commanded attention with no effort whatsoever.

“I also heard about your skill in battle, Lady Cailleach,” she added. “I understand you recently won a tournament.”

“Not without Lady Marianne’s help,” said Neryssa, causing Vera to redirect her intrusive, calculating gaze. It took all Marianne possessed not to shiver under the intense inspection.

“The prowess of Sidhe is certainly a thing to admire, is it not,” offered Vera without a sliver of sincerity. Once she was done appraising Marianne – and obviously having decided she was no threat – the Volkolak turned back to Neryssa.

“Perhaps you will do me the honour of sparring with me sometime, Lady Cailleach?”

Neryssa seemed confused, and the Volkolak saw it fit to explain herself further.

“In our culture, sparring is akin to... a greeting, of sorts. Like a hug between friends. When King Bhaltair was crowned, my father sparred with him, to show he accepted him as rightful leader of the Fae. When I become Kagan, other clan leaders will spar with me to declare their loyalty.”

“But... I am not a leader of the Cailleachan,” said Neryssa.

“It doesn’t matter. It does not have to be a ceremonial thing. I will spar with you to declare friendship, if you agree.”

“What will happen to that friendship if I don’t?”

Vera smiled a grin that could only be described as wolfy. “Forgive me, I did not express myself well. The Common tongue does not have a word to describe what Volkolak call _dosht_. It means… friend, in a sense, but not the way I am a friend to my brother. In a way that is more intimate and… indelicate.”

Neryssa’s pupils exploded over her irises. A spark of sorcery made her tattoos momentarily come to life and spiral like snakes around her arms. Vera noticed, and an unmistakable glint of arousal flashed in her eyes. The Cailleach mirrored the Volkolak’s wicked grin.

“Well then, my lady Vera, I will be honoured to accept.”

“Splendid! Once you have had a chance to rest from your trip, perhaps we should discuss the… specifics. Would you be so kind as to meet me in my room? I will send a servant for you.”

“I shall look forward to it.”

The Volkolak bowed her head again and excused herself. Marianne released the breath she had been holding, but her relief was short-lived. She had been too focused on Vera to notice that Boril, the young male with arms like tree-trunks, had been observing the exchange from a small distance. And while Vera’s inspection of Marianne had been intense but brief, his persisted. Boril’s sharp, dark gaze was swiping over her, as if to peel her apart. Marianne lifted her chin defiantly and offered him a polite nod. The lazy grin that spread over the Volkolak’s lips was not so much a smile as a bearing of teeth. He nodded in return and followed his sister, disappearing from view.

“What the hell was that?” hissed Marianne, when she was sure the Tengri were far enough.

“That was apparently how the Volkolak proposition potential lovers,” mused Neryssa.

“But... you won’t actually…”

“You bet your perky tits I will! She's Ichihi-Kagan, the right hand of the leader. Nothing happens in Volkolak territory without her knowledge. Besides, pillow talk makes for the best espionage.”

“Neryssa, you can’t! She seems dangerous, and she probably wants to sneak information out of you!”

“Feel free to join us and watch over me, Lady Quickblade,” winked Neryssa. It was clear that the sorceress wouldn’t budge, so Marianne gave up on trying to persuade her.

The rest of the day rolled by without incident. The Fae delegates were shown to their rooms and left to their own devices. Marianne was particularly grateful for the hot bath that had been drawn for her – even with fires and braziers burning all over the Citadel, a persistent chill lingered between the stone walls. When she emerged from the bathroom, she found a tray of food had been set out for her, along with a fresh change of clothes. There was no trace of the servant responsible – a shame, because she was hoping to ask someone where to find the Citadel’s library. It ought to contain mountains of books on the Tengri and their Grand Council - information which was sorely lacking in Arisaig Keep. All Marianne knew that the three most important members of the of the Grand Council were Zmey: immortal, immensely powerful, and supposedly the siblings of Queen Pagganeé herself. The great Healer Queen had lived for nearly three thousand years, according to legend, but had spent the last ten centuries in Sleep. When Zmey became tired of living their long lives, they descended underneath the Tengri Mountains and entered some kind of deep meditation that could last for millennia. According to the Fae historians, when the Queen had gone into her Sleep, she'd left her three siblings to maintain order and peace among the Tengri. Aside from the Zmey, representatives of the main Tengri factions also served on the Council, but only for ten years at a time. At present, Kagan Yaruslav sat for the Volkolak, and Neryssa would be the sheep amongst his wolves, granted she survived Lady Vera’s amorous advances. As for the Samodivi, their representative was probably related to Silvana – and, by extension, Bhaltair – which made them the Bog King’s problem. Marianne and Halthor would have to find a way to infiltrate the Zmey – a mission that, by all accounts, might well be suicidal.

After her meal, Marianne decided to explore the Citadel, ger familiar with her surroundings and find out where the Zmey resided. Without weapons and armour, she felt practically naked. Every now and again, she would nervously touch her amulet and check her reflection in mirrors to make sure the glamour was working. Thankfully, no one she walked past paid her any heed. In fact, all she received were a few respectful, but distinctly reserved greetings. The Tengri seemed far too preoccupied with their own affairs to worry about her. She even attempted to listen in on a number of conversations, but to her frustration, they did not use the Common tongue to speak amongst themselves. Her knowledge of the Tengri language was limited to a handful of phrases she’d memorised in the past week, none of which were at all helpful for gathering in-depth information. She repeatedly recognised the words for “wedding”, “king” and "Fae" in snippets of conversation, and assumed that the main subject of gossip was Bhaltair and Silvana’s upcoming nuptials. It would apparently be the first marriage union between Fae and Tengri after a two-thousand-year-old peace treaty – a clear indication that residents of the Realm of Old were exceptionally devoted to their grudges. Another fact she learned was that large groups of Tengri had come from all over the mountains, because a meeting of the Grand Council was not an event to be missed.

Before Marianne had managed to find the library or the Zmey's quarters, the sun began to set over the mountains. Nighttime descended early and rapidly over the mountain range and groups of visitors began to leisurely make their way to the banquet hall. The Samodivi had been invited to perform a song of welcome, undoubtedly prompted by their own representative within the Council. Marianne hoped to learn a lot more about the recent attacks against them, and ideally, to figure out the reason why they had been specifically targeted, along with the Fae.

As she approached the entrance to the banquet hall, Marianne tried to distract herself from the sense of dread that always bothered her in the midst of large gatherings. She scanned the crowd for familiar faces and vaguely acknowledged that Bhaltair was walking ahead of her with Silvana on his arm. Or perhaps he was on hers – after all, as the Volkolak had so helpfully reminded him, he was but her consort. An all-familiar rage began to quiver in Marianne’s chest and she paused for a moment to compose herself. Neryssa and Vera walked past her, engaged in what appeared to be a riveting conversation. The Cailleach somehow managed to sneak a wink and an utterly diabolical grin in Marianne's direction. So her afternoon had gone well then – that was good news. Marianne had quickly grown to accept and respect the Fae’s libertine nature, not least because they were equally accepting and respectful of her own unwillingness to engage with that particular aspect of their culture. Although Marianne’s faith had taken something of a hit in the past years, some elements of her Christian upbringing were less easily shed than others.

Absorbed in her thoughts, Marianne did not realise she was under scrutiny until it was far too late. Boril, the Kagan’s son, was observing her keenly from the other side of the corridor, his focus so sharp that she could practically feel his eyes pierce her skin. Taken by surprise, she could do nothing but stare back at him while scolding herself for being so unobservant. Worse still, most of the crowd had already trickled into the hall, leaving the corridor practically deserted. A stab of panic coursed through Marianne when Boril began to slowly move towards her. Powerful muscles uncoiled under his skin with every step, as if his body had been purposefully designed to intimidate. His tunic was stretched tightly over his chest, one deep breath away from snapping open.

“Good evening, Lady Mah-ree-ohn,” he offered, rolling her name on his tongue with fiendish delight.

She did not respond, but instead gave him another nod of condescending detachment. Bhaltair might have berated her for it, but damn him, he was not the one being cornered by a Volkolak three times his size! Boril grinned, every bit the ravenous wolf from children’s fairy-tales.

“I trust my sister did not cause any problems for you and the Lady Neryssa with her sparring proposition.”

He rolled his _r_ s with glee, as if he’d purposefully selected his words just to demonstrate the resonant capacity of his powerful chest.

“None whatsoever,” replied Marianne frostily.

The wicked wolf seemed positively bloodthirsty. How would she even kill him, if it came to it? Even if she had her blades, they would surely just bend and shatter against the mass of solid muscle that comprised his body.

“Am I to assume then that you and the Lady Cailleach are not attached?” he asked.

“I cannot control your assumptions, my lord.”

Boril remained undeterred by her coldness. He kept grinning with his fangs on display, and Marianne wondered if perhaps it was some sort veiled Volkolak threat. Tengri culture seemed to thrive on veiled rituals that permeated each and every interaction, like an entire hidden language system that was completely incomprehensible to outsiders. Marianne hoped Boril’s physical proximity to her was not part of some such ritual, because it was beginning to make her incredibly uneasy. The wall behind her had migrated dangerously close to her back.

“May I ask you a question, while we walk to the banquet hall?” she said, deciding to use offence for defensive purposes. “I do not wish to come across as disrespectful, but Volkolak culture is unfamiliar to me. Could you please explain the significance of the tattoo on your neck?”

That worked to stop Boril from moving closer to her, but he did not make an attempt to lead her towards the banquet hall. Instead, he turned his chin slightly to let Marianne take a closer work at the tattoo in question.

“It marks me as blood-son of Kagan Yaruslav,” he explained. Up close, Marianne managed to distinguish three interlocked rings of elaborate writing.

“Does the Lady Vera have one as well?” she asked.

“Hers is different. She is Yaruslav’s daughter, but by choice, rather than blood. He adopted her as his own, when we were little.”

“Oh… Is the title not passed down to those from the Kagan’s own bloodline?”

“Of course not. The title of Kagan is earned, not gifted. Vera is the best leader in our clan, much better than me.”

He declared it with complete certainty and without ceremony, as if he was informing Marianne that the sun rose from the East. Yet another thing Fae and Tengri had in common was the conviction that being capable of ruling a kingdom was much more important than blood ties, or indeed, gender.

“What about your other tattoos, the ones on your arms?” asked Marianne while deliberating on the best strategy for evading the Volkolak's company without offending him.

“My tattoos mark many things. Achievement, prowess, victories in battle against other clans… I have others, not on display. Most of them I earned. Some I got because I enjoyed the sting. Would you like to see them, Lady Mah-ree-ohn?”

His sudden was accompanied with a dangerous, suggestive smile. Marianne desperately wanted to step away from him, but he had managed to back her flush against the cold wall. There was no one around to see them – Neryssa and everyone else had already disappeared inside the banquet hall, and were probably being enchanted by the Samodivi’s singing.

“You… you enjoyed the sting?” stammered Marianne as panic began to bloom in her chest.

“Yes,” Boril’s voice was low and rough, like a salacious promise. “Volkolak enjoy a bit of a sting. We were built this way, made to welcome pain and withstand it. It makes us great warriors. And it excites our lovers.”

He fucking _winked_ at her! A red veil of rage descended before Marianne’s eyes. She imagined with vivid precision how the bastard’s cheekbone would crack under her knuckles. But such an unprovoked assault would bring heaps of trouble, so she bit her tongue hard. She tasted blood. Red, human blood that he was not supposed to see. _Fuck_! Boril must have interpreted her silence as an invitation, because he moved even closer, until a mere inch separated their lips. His large frame completely dominated Marianne's field of view. 

“Would that excite you, little Sidhe?” he teased. “You could scratch, and bite, and mark me however you like. I wouldn’t stop you. I would just fuck you harder.”

Marianne's heart stopped cold.

“Back off!” she snarled.

“Or what, little Sidhe?” he snarled right back.

“Or I’ll put a knife through your eye. See how you like that sting!”

Boril's chest rumbled in laughter and wicked mirth danced in the dark pits of his eyes. He moved away and allowed her to breathe again, though something told her it was not because he'd taken her threat seriously. Marianne’s heart began to pound in earnest terror, but she clenched her teeth and stared him down. She was no frail maiden, not anymore. She’d rip his guts out if he touched her!

“Forgive me for my insolence, Lady Marianne,” he said sweetly, with a gallant bow. “I merely wanted to confirm my suspicions. Perhaps my sister might have found a more… diplomatic way. Sadly, I have none of her patience.”

“What suspicions?” hissed Marianne. His grin was pure, blood-curdling malice.

“That the Fae have got a feisty little human in their midst. This promises to be most exciting. I do hope you enjoy the banquet, my lady.”

And with that, he turned around and walked off. Marianne’s knees buckled and she was suddenly grateful for the sturdy wall behind her. Cold sweat broke out all over her body and her breath came out in choking gasps. She felt like she was about to be sick. _How could he possibly know?_ The glamour was working – she’d checked a thousand times. How did he know? _Damn him!_ It was all her fault, letting him get so close to her, letting herself be riled up so easily!

And now, she had to kill him. Bhaltair’s orders had been clear – kill the enemy to avoid war. He had neglected to explain what to do if the enemy happened to be the son of the Volkolak representative in the Grand Council. Regardless, the Bog King was too busy dallying with his silver-haired Vila to bother with anything else. Somehow, Marianne would need to clean her mess alone. She was grateful, at least, that Neryssa was currently providing creative distractions for Vera, and the Samodivi were singing for everyone else's entertainment. She would need to act quickly and mercilessly in order to avoid any bloodshed. She forced her knees into action and went after Boril.

He was standing in the banquet hall, sipping on a tankard of mead. There was a dismissive sneer on his face, as if he was finding the Samodivi’s music lacking. In fact, the Kagan’s son ought to have been the only one in the hall who did not appear completely entranced by their exquisite song. With the exception of Marianne, of course - she was so sickened with worry that even the mesmerising music of the Samodivi failed to soothe her nerves. Her eyes darted around helplessly, checking to see if anyone was watching her. The hall was crowded with Tengri and no one seemed to be paying attention to anything other than the performance. Bhaltair was sitting next to Silvana near the front of the room, holding her hand in his. At one point he even glanced in Marianne's direction and gave her a questioning look. Marianne nodded a reassuring greeting and moved on, eager to finish the job. She swallowed her mounting panic and approached Boril, putting her hand over his large forearm to attract his attention. Steely muscles trembled under her touch and his eyes latched onto her like carnivorous teeth.

“You were right. About me,” she whispered.

“You will have to be more specific, my lady,” His fangs flashed in a predatory smirk.

“About your… suspicions.”

“I know that already.”

“I need to… speak. To you. About that. I should - I must - tell you. Everything.”

He raised a mocking eyebrow at her, but nodded towards the door. She left the room first, cursing herself for being such a blabbering fool. She ought to flirt with him, seduce him, or something within those lines, except she did not have the faintest idea how to act seductive. She walked a small distance outside the hall when his wide footsteps brought him to her side. His voice was low and threatening when he addressed her.

“I should begin by saying that I don’t trust you to tell me the truth about anything, my lady.”

“Why not?”

“Because I am not stupid.”

“Then why did you follow me?”

He smirked like the beast that he was. “I frightened you earlier, yet you came back to seek me out. Either I didn’t frighten you enough, or you enjoyed the thrill. Either way, you now have my curiosity, and my undivided attention.”

Marianne did not recall any sense of enjoyment in their brief encounter – only cold, paralysing fear. She had not come after him for anything other than her mission… had she?

“You see,” he continued, “my sister is not the only one who is allowed to enjoy herself on this trip. When we ran through the mountains on our way here, we spoke about this. She will be Kagan soon, and she wishes to savour her last years of freedom. She saw a worthy companion in the Lady Cailleach. I saw one in you, even before your… origins became clear to me. Now that I know what you are, I have grown to like you even more.”

“You _ran_ through the mountains?”

Boril’s eyes gleamed with laughter. The sincere amusement did something peculiar to his features, stripped them of their viciousness and made him appear almost boyish.

“I told you that I find you a worthy companion, and you ask me about running? You truly know little about the Volkolak, my lady.”

Marianne frowned. It was not her fault that his people were so damn cryptic and reliable sources on their culture were so sparse. Perhaps she had instigated another sort of ritual by essentially inviting him to follow her. She bloody well hoped it was one she could use to her advantage.

“We did run,” continued Boril. “Volkolak believe that flying creatures are not meant to be bridled and ridden for transport. Besides, we like to run. It is our nature – the blood of Asena, the first Wolf, compels us. The forest calls to us. No one knows these mountains better than we do, because we run through them from the moment we are old enough to stand on our own two feet.”

He seemed to like volunteering information. Marianne saw a chance to get some more out of him.

“I've heard that Volkolak can shift into wolves. Is that true?"

"Yes, though not quite. In our true form we are much larger than wolves, and able to run on two legs."

"What does it feel like?” she heard herself ask. All traces of mockery melted from Boril's face.

“You would have me describe something for which there are no words. When the Volk rises in our blood… it is freedom, and glory. We feel the wind rustle in the leaves, and we taste the moon, as if we draw our very breath from it. The forest’s song is irresistible to us… Have you ever had a lover whom you wanted to worship and ravish in equal measure?”

Marianne shook her head, not trusting her voice.

“A shame. Because that is what it feels like when the forest calls to us, like wanting to possess and to be possessed. You couldn’t begin to understand it, unless you’ve known such desire.”

Marianne did not like thinking about her desires. The things she coveted, the things she imagined in the darkness of her bedroom, when she allowed herself a solitary moment of pleasure, were undeniable proof that some part of her mind had been irreparably damaged. But she forced her thoughts away from all that and focused on her mission.

“These feelings you speak of, these desires,” she said quietly. “I would like to… know them. Myself.”

It was not even a lie, not entirely. But for a split second, Boril’s dark irises flashed a light-amber. A wide grin stretched over his lips, baring his razor-sharp teeth.

“I would be honoured to show you my true form, my lady,” he said, smugly. “But I fear I might end up with a knife in my eye.”

“Then we are in luck, my lord, for you have been blessed with two.”

She was not sure what came over her, but Boril clearly liked it. Warm laughter rumbled in his chest, full of sinful promises. Feeling suddenly bolder, Marianne smiled in return and walked off, not without glancing at him over her shoulder. His footsteps were quiet as he followed her through the Citadel’s corridors, close enough to make his presence obvious without appearing suspicious. Marianne didn't know where she was leading him, or precisely how she planned to deal with his knowledge of her true origins. Bedding him was completely out of the question, so she avoided the corridor that led to her room. But she could not ignore the way her blood hummed in her veins, nor the strange sense of excitement that washed over her. There was a wolf on her heels. A large, virile wolf, who somehow knew her secret and seemed determined to ravish her against the nearest wall. And for some insane reason, she knew she had to lead him away from safety. She ought to be panicked by now, but something made her brave, some distant notion that she had control over Boril. She wondered if all prey creatures felt that way. Did a deer’s heart also pound with a wild urge to cheat death?

Marianne went through a series of doors and arching stone corridors, until eventually, she ended up through the main gate and outside the Citadel. The courtyard was dark and deserted. A frantic voice in her head whispered that she was stupid to lead Boril here, where no one would see them or hear her cries for help. But then another voice, louder and more persistent, reminded her once again that she was no longer a frail maiden. She was Lady Quickblade, damn it, and Lady Quickblade did not scream for help. In the distance, lit by the glimmer of braziers, the stone bridge stretched over the gorge. Marianne’s legs carried her towards it before her mind was even made up, with Boril’s footsteps close behind. She did not need to look over her shoulder to know he was following her – the distinct feeling of being chased was painfully familiar. Except this time, there would be no Haunted forest to run into, and no Fae King to save her life. This time, she was on her own. And for some reason – perhaps because she was truly damaged – that thought excited her.

When she reached the bridge, Marianne paused. Braziers burned every few yards along its entire length. Beneath it was nothing but darkness. She glanced over her shoulder once, noting that Boril had also stopped walking and was regarding her curiously. The night was so quiet that she imagined if she listened closely, she might hear the sound of his beating heart. Marianne turned towards the bridge and shut her eyes. She ought to go back and stop this madness. She ought to go to Bhaltair right away and tell him that Boril knew about her, ask him what to do. That was the wisest decision. Resolved, Marianne took a long, deep breath. 

And then she ran.

Her boots hit the stone in quick succession as she dashed over the bridge. Cold air filled her lungs, but her blood was on fire. Boril’s angry howl sliced through the night’s silence before he rushed after her.

Marianne was a good runner, but he was impossibly fast. The way he ate up the distance between them was terrifying. Focusing on nothing but her speed, she forced her muscles to propel her forward. Intense heat spiralled from her feet all the way up her calves and thighs. Her training kicked in and she remembered to keep her back straight, to use her arms, to take even breaths through her nose. The gorge was underneath her, mercifully shrouded in darkness, but she still did not dare look.

Boril, despite his superior speed, had not caught up with her by the time she reached the end of the bridge. Marianne began to think he was just playing along in her little game, when she didn’t even know the rules. She sprinted into the forest proper. Tangled pine trees towered over her, too thick for the moonlight to penetrate. The soft foliage under her feet was slippery, but she was smaller than Boril and could easy dart between the trees without losing much speed. It was a minuscule advantage, but she’d take it.

Boril howled behind her, closer than she thought. Either she had slowed down, or he was speeding up, tired of the game. She did not even know why she’d started running from him, or what she would do when she eventually stopped, though she had a myriad of ideas about what _he_ would do. But before Marianne could settle on a plan of action, it was too late. She came to the end of the forest, where the ground dropped suddenly into a deep ravine that bore the promise of a long, fatal descent. Marianne skidded to a stop near the edge and cursed viciously. Instinct had her reach for her swords, but they were not at hand. She had nothing.

Breathless, she gathered the courage to turn around. In the darkness, she could see the outline of Boril’s enormous frame and the amber glow in his eyes. Trapped between an enormous Volkolak and a deadly gorge, Marianne was, for all intents and purposes, completely at his mercy.

“What now, my pretty little human?” he teased. “You have nowhere left to run.”

Marianne was out of breath and could not form a response.

“I knew by your scent,” Boril added casually. “I can smell it even now. All it takes is for your heart to beat a little bit faster and your human blood starts singing to me.”

“Who else have you told?” panted Marianne.

Silent, Boril stepped towards her. She could only watch him close the distance between them, helpless to stop him from leaning in and brushing his lips over her neck. Hot breath spilled against her skin, causing her to shiver. His hands wrapped around her shoulders, and although she stiffened in his grip, he only used his thumbs to gently trace the length of her collarbones. Despite her mounting fear, part of her found the sensation rather pleasant.

“Why share my prize, before I’m ready?” he whispered against her skin. “It’s been so long since I last tasted a human. And besides, I might be persuaded to keep your secret, with the right encouragement.”

The hands around her shoulders slipped down her sides and grasped her hips, pulling her closer. He thrust his leather-clad erection against her belly in a precise indication of what he meant. Heat emanated from his powerful body, and Marianne found herself craving more of it. The chase had done something to her, filled her with exhilaration. The man who held her in a possessive grip and intended to have her trade her body for his silence did not immediately repel her. In fact, she found his strength and his heat… interesting. Desirable, even. But the eyes that bore into her glowed in amber, not blue, and the roll of his _r_ s was somehow flatter, different from the sound she longed to hear, and he was wrong, all wrong, too bulky, too tanned, and utterly wingless.

Marianne braced her hands against the solid wall of his chest, intending to push him away. Halfway there, her intent changed without her knowledge, and the push she gave him was feeble and useless.

“So beautiful,” he whispered against her skin. "What a shame that you were not born one of us - I would have made you my queen."

One of his palms released her hip and landed with a loud smack on her ass. The sting he left in his wake transformed into a curious heat that throbbed pleasantly and spread over her skin. 

“Such an insolent little human,” he continued. The next smack tore a weak sound from Marianne, neither plea nor protest. “You would run from me? You would have me chase my prize?”

Marianne was paralysed in his grasp, while his hands kneaded the soft flesh of her ass with greedy intent. What was wrong with her that she had willingly put herself in that position? Why wasn't she fighting his advances? Suddenly, Boril’s fingers slipped between her legs from behind, a hot, insistent press against her core. Shame, fear and arousal washed over her in equal measure. She tried to pull away, but it only served to bring her flush against the hard press of his cock on her belly.

“I will fill you right here,” he growled, fingers rubbing in maddening circles over the fabric of her breeches. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? I can smell it on you.”

She wanted to deny it. Tried to. But she could not speak, could not even move. His heat was filling her, forcing her body to soften and respond to the delicious, terrifying caress. His voice was a rough snarl against her ear.

“Can’t fool me, human. You blush like a virgin, but your little cunt smells all sweet and ripe, and ready. Just as well, because after I feast on it, I’ll fuck you harder and deeper than anyone ever has. You are mine now. And I will make you scream.”

His fingers were relentless, and Marianne whimpered in surrender. It earned her another sharp, wonderful smack, another wave of searing heat shooting right through her core. One of his hands fisted in her hair, pulled her head to the side and she was ready for the kiss that would follow… Until, without warning, Boril’s teeth sank in the crook of her neck.

She did not know what happened.

The first blow nearly shattered her knuckles. The second sent sharp pain through her entire forearm. The third landed on his nose. Bones cracked under her fist. Blood gushed down his face. Screams boomed in the quiet night, his – of pain and surprise, hers – a savage battle cry.

But Boril was faster. He spat blood and pounced at her with a brutal roar. Frozen, Marianne desperately clutched the collar of his tunic and fell backwards under his weight. Triumph glinted in his ravenous eyes – her cue. Without thinking, she planted her foot at his waist, rolled onto her shoulders and kicked out with all her might. Her muscles cramped with the force, but it worked. Taken by his own momentum, Boril flipped over her and went flying down the gorge with a terrified shriek.

Marianne was on her back, winded and shaking. It took her a long moment to realise that she was alone.  _What had she done?_ She scrambled up and crawled to the edge, forced herself to peak into the bottomless ravine. The side of the gorge was steep and bare, with rocks protruding from its surface like pointed teeth. A river rumbled somewhere in the distance, too far to be seen in the dark. There was no way anyone could have survived that fall. Marianne crawled away from the ledge, fighting an onslaught of nausea. Horror weighed like a brick in her stomach. She took laboured, wheezing breaths until her heart could beat again. A second look over the edge confirmed what she already knew – Boril was nowhere to be seen. She had thrown him into the chasm. He was dead. She had killed him.

Marianne forced herself back on her feet and sprinted through the forest. It took her too long to find her way back to the bridge, but the further she ran, the more her panic grew. A single thought rang in her mind, over and over again: _All her fault_. Boril was dead. She had killed him. He’d found out she was human, and now he was dead _. All her fault!_

By the time she arrived back at the Citadel, there were scratches all over her and a stitch in her side like a stab wound. A plan was beginning to form in her mind, a desperate, insane plan, but it was the best she had. She ran along the empty corridors to her room and only stopped when she reached the door. Marianne slipped inside quietly, clicked the door shut and doubled over in pain, lungs burning. Her vision immediately blurred with exhaustion and she could not even perceive the menacing figure before her.

_“Where have you been!”_

It was a miracle that she didn’t scream.

Never had she seen Bhaltair as angry as he was in that precise moment. With his wings spread, he appeared large enough to fill the entire room. The very air around him trembled with rage, and his glare was a blazing, furious blue.

“I asked you a question!” The Bog King's rough Goblin brogue bore the full weight of his wrath. “Where. The fuck. Have you been?”

“Was… out. Sire.”

Marianne was still gasping for breath, which was probably why she didn’t scream when Bhaltair’s hand landed hard against the writing desk. The solid wood cracked under his razor-sharp claws.

“Is this some kind of a joke to you?” It was evident that he wanted to yell, but he was trying to keep quiet. The resulting snarl was somehow more frightening.

“Not… a joke. Murder,” she managed, before another wave of pain pierced her side, just under the ribs.

“What do you mean?” asked the Bog King.

“Boril. Kagan’s… son. He’s… dead.”

The furious glow evaporated from Bhaltair’s eyes and confusion replaced anger.

“He’s dead,” repeated Marianne. “He found me out. I killed him. He’s dead.”

The weight of the realization was sudden and crushing, like a punch to the stomach. Marianne’s knees buckled and she slid to the floor. Panic forced her heart into a gallop. _Killed him. Killed him. Killed him._ Black spots danced before her eyes. She couldn’t speak _._ Couldn’t breathe. Intense pain all over her limbs. Crushing her chest. Ice in her blood. Drowning. _Drowning!_

Then somehow, instead of the floor, she was gazing at the ceiling. There was something under her head. A cushion? No… a hand.

“ _Tarraing d'anail_ ,” someone whispered soothingly. Bhaltair. The dark blotches slowly melted from Marianne’s vision and she saw him, on his knees next to her. He had moved her onto her back. He was supporting her head. He’d told her to breathe. At first, it felt as if her lungs had frozen shut, but it became easier each moment. When she was finally in control of herself, Marianne rose to her knees and faced the Bog King.

“Tell me what happened,” he prompted gently.

It was easier to speak of the murder than of the helpless episode she’d just experienced before his very eyes. Such fits only took her in the dead of night, after particularly vivid nightmares. With practiced military efficiency, Marianne relayed the events of the evening to Bhaltair, but chose to omit certain parts. Even then, she could not look him in the eye. Instead, she focused on his hands. Long, lithe fingers with prominent joints, topped by black nails that could extend to deadly claws. An idle though crossed her mind, a fleeting image of those hands taking a possessive grip of her flesh. Marianne viciously suppressed the fit of hysterical laughter that was threatening to erupt from her. She’d just killed a man! An important Volkolak lay dead in a gorge because of her! This was no time to lust after anyone, let alone the Bog King!

When she finished her story, Bhaltair snarled something rough in the Goblin dialect. She glanced at his face, and the murderous look in his eyes confirmed her suspicions: he was furious at her. She had made a terrible, unforgivable mistake. Her carelessness and stupidity would bring war to his kingdom. She would –

“We need to get rid of the body,” he said.

Marianne’s eyes jumped to his, recognising the glint of bloodlust that marked his battle-rage.

“But I…”

“We need to make sure he isn’t found.”

“No! We don’t. _I_ do! You can’t be seen anywhere near… Almighty God, you can’t even be seen here! You need to leave my room, now! This is my mess, and I’ll take care of – ”

“Do not order me around, soldier! Listen to me carefully and do as I say. Grab an _eithre_ from the aviary and meet me at the end of the bridge. Make sure no one sees you. Am I understood?”

“No, you can’’t – ”

“Am I understood!”

She nodded, resigned. Bhaltair left the room without another word, his face a mask of intense fury. All the way to the aviary, Marianne could think of nothing but how he would unleash all that fury upon her, as soon as he was certain his kingdom was no longer endangered by her foolishness.

When she met him at the bridge a little while later, the moon had disappeared behind a shroud of clouds. Marianne only recognised Bhaltair by the blue glow of his eyes, Their coldness cut through her chest, sharp and clear. He barely said a word while they flew over the forest and towards the spot where she’d killed Boril. The heavy silence was sticky and oppressive while they slowly descended to the bottom of the gorge, and Marianne was grateful when the distant moan of the river turned into a powerful roar that drowned out all noise. The water was swift and merciless, flowing furiously between the walls of the gorge. There was barely a bank on either side, and no room for the _eithre_ to land safely. The large bird had to soar over the river while Marianne tried to peer into its blackness, unable to distinguish anything.

Bhaltair’s vision was better than her own, however. He spotted something and gestured for her to follow, flying low over the water. Moisture soaked through Marianne's tunic as she followed him. After a little while, they came to a small rock that protruded above the water level. It was barely wide enough to fit Bhaltair's two feet, but he somehow balanced on it and gazed into the river’s depths.

Without warning, he leaped and dived under the waves.

Marianne screamed, but the sound did not even register to her own ears over the noise of the crushing river. She hovered helplessly, practically blind in the thick darkness. The current was so powerful that the rock seemed to shake against its force.

“Bhaltair! Bhaltair!”

Marianne shouted his name over and over, but it was pointless. An endless minute passed without a sign of the Bog King. She cursed and let go of the reins, unable to simply stand idly by while he drowned. Resolved, she swung her leg over the bird’s back, preparing to dive in the violent waters and face whatever might happen. She closed her eyes and began to shimmy off the saddle –

A splash of water soaked her before she made the jump. Bhaltair! He had emerged over the surface, fluttering his wings to dry them. Cold droplets rained all over Marianne. Then, as she stood frozen in mid-jump, he came over to her, dripping wet and furious.

“ _The bluidy fook d’ye think yer doin’!_ ” he bellowed. Without waiting for an answer, he pushed her back onto the saddle, handed her the rains and unceremoniously smacked the _eithre_ ’s backside until it flew up with a disgruntled shriek. Relief flooded every fibre of Marianne’s being, until she felt boneless with it. He was alright! He was mad as hell, and she would kill him dead, but he was alright.

At the top, she pulled the reins and made the _eithre_ land at amidst the forest. The bird did not seem pleased with the treatment it had received throughout the night and stalked off, pecking angrily at the bark of a pine tree. Marianne left it to fume in peace and turned towards the Bog King, who had landed close behind her.

“Are you insane?” she shrieked and delivered a solid punch to his shoulder. Pain shot through her bruised knuckles, but she ignored it.

“You were about to jump after me!” he growled in retort.

“What possessed you to jump in there, you stupid – “

“ – lost your bloody mind to try and follow me – “

“ – could’ve drowned in that river – “

“ – will never be allowed to leave Arisaig again!”

Panting, they stared at each other. Marianne suppressed the urge to punch him again, in the face.

“What were you doing under there?” she asked instead, fighting to keep her voice calm.

“The Volkolak’s body. I found it, secured it against the rock. Made sure the current wouldn’t carry him off to the waterfall before the _vodnik_ were done with him.”

“Vodnik?”

“Water creatures. Feed on dead flesh. They’d already started. There won’t be a trace of him, come morning.”

Merciful Heavens… Boril would be eaten by water demons. She’d done that – his blood was on her hands.

“And you – what is wrong with you?” roared Bhaltair. “The moment you jumped into that water, you’d have been drowned! I wouldn’t have been fast enough. What were you thinking?”

“I – I wasn’t,” she muttered. His gaze was too much to bear, all the sudden.

“Never do that again!” he snarled.

She heard him step closer. Rough fingers grasped her chin with shocking tenderness until she met his eyes.

“Promise me, Marianne. Promise me to never even think about risking your life like that.”

“I can’t promise you that. I signed a contract to…”

“Fuck the contract!”

Surprise flashed in his eyes, as if he’d said something unintentional. They darted from her own to her neck, and his battle-rage was suddenly palpable in the air around them.

“He bit you.”

It took Marianne a moment to decipher what he’d said. Boril’s bite must have left a mark on her skin, but between his murder and Bhaltair's close encounter with a watery grave, she'd forgotten all about it.

“I suppose he did,” she said, shrugging.

“You suppose?! I’m going to gut him with my own – “

“He’s already dead! And it wasn’t his fault, not really. I provoked him – I made him chase me, and then didn’t… and when he jumped at me, I couldn’t stop myself – ”

“NO!” Bhaltair’s voice boomed over the forest. “It was all his fault! You could’ve run into the forest naked and it would still be his fault. Do you understand?”

“It was my decision, and I didn’t stop him!” _And I liked it._

“Then why did he end up on the bottom of the river?”

 _It was wrong. He wasn’t you._ She couldn’t say the words.

“Marianne, listen to me. You were not responsible for his actions. They do that to humans, draw them out into the forest and hunt them for sport. You did exactly what you should have done. What I ordered you to do, explicitly.”

“Then why were you so mad?”

“Why? Because one of the most dangerous creatures in this entire Realm was eyeing you up like dinner! Because I saw you leave the banquet hall with him! And because you weren’t in your room when I went to look for you, and I didn’t… And then his fucking mark on you!”

He paused and ran his hands through his hair.

“Because I’m an eejit,” he muttered. “A stupid, old eejit.”

Silence stretched over the forest. A distant thump resonated somewhere, like the beat of a drum. Or perhaps it was Marianne’s own heartbeat – she couldn’t quite tell anymore. Narrow rays of moonlight rained between the branches of the ancient pine trees. In the pale light, she saw that Bhaltair was not wearing his armour, then realised with a start that she’d never seen him wear anything else. He was in leather breeches and wore some kind of tunic that vaguely resembled her own. The drenched clothes clung to him, and his grey skin glistened rather fetchingly.

He was watching her. Patiently bearing her scrutiny. There were thoughts whirling in her mind, and words she ought to say to him. A sentence almost formed on her tongue.

“I… I need…”

“Tell me. Please. Anything.”

It was impossible to continue looking at him, not when that raw, savage glow blazed in his eyes. To escape it, Marianne focused on his lips. They were thin lips, curved downwards like a bow, parted slightly and bisected by a narrow scar. She found herself overcome with an urge to kiss that little scar. Not him – just the scar. She stood on her tiptoes and pressed her lips to the edge of his mouth.

Bhaltair made a low noise deep in his chest. He stood completely still, arms hanging limply at his sides. His eyebrows drew together in a confused frown. A droplet of cold water ran all the way down Marianne’s back and made her shiver – or was it him? Was it the scent of myrrh and pine resin that seemed to emanate from his skin? The drumming of her heart was loud and frantic in her ears.

But he did not move. Not even an inch. The second time she rose on her toes, Marianne kissed his bottom lip, which was ever so slightly fuller that the top. She ought to sink her teeth in it until she drew blood! It would serve him right for standing there like a statue when her whole body quivered. Bhaltair groaned something unintelligible. Marianne did not listen. She couldn’t think – not when the drum beat beckoned her to ruin him.

The third time, Marianne planted her lips over his, as if to test their fit. When he didn’t react, she traced his bottom lip with the tip of her tongue, until she found that wicked little scar. What a selfish act, kissing – making herself the only thing he could taste. Forbidden. _Sinful_. Someone moaned. Was it her? It was a weak, tormented sound, barely audible. A low purr vibrated through Bhaltair’s chest, as if in response. Astounded, Marianne traced the scar with her tongue again, eager to get the same reaction. When she did, she gently pulled his bottom lip between her teeth.

A husky growl tore from Bhaltair. His hands found Marianne's shoulders and pulled her flush against him, which was fortunate, because her legs had begun to quake under a thunderstorm of need.

His kiss was heat, and hunger, and glory. Boldly, Marianne slid her tongue between his lips to seek his. Then she opened for him when he invaded her, so welcome, so delicate when he grazed her lips with his teeth. Fire raced under her skin. Each involuntary moan he tore from her provoked a groaning response from him. Each time she touched him, his arms tightened around her. And she wanted to touch, wanted more of his gasps and curses. She dragged her nails between his wings and all the way down his spine.

Bhaltair groaned a curse and rained hot kisses down her neck. His lips locked on her pulse, as if to swallow the wild drumming of her heart. She slipped her hands under his tunic and his naked skin felt hot to the touch, wiry muscles trembling under her fingertips. A shudder went through him and caused his wings to flutter. His next kiss was uninhibited, overwhelming, and she felt a distant twinge of fear.

Awareness buzzed in her blood. Her mind responded by snapping into a familiar state of cool detachment, where she automatically noted what was happening to her own body, as if it belonged to someone else. At one point in her life, she’d used that dispassionate detachment to survive. With Bhaltair, she detested it. Never before had she wanted so desperately to experience each and every sensation. In her panic, Marianne did not know how to make herself feel again, how to explain what she needed...

But then, something ancient and powerful awoke inside her, a selfish, untamed drive that took control of her body and made her strain against Bhaltair. He nearly lost his balance and lunged forward, giving Marianne the opportunity to straddle his leg. Instinct drove her to rock her hips and glide against his strong thigh. Pleasure exploded _right there_ , at the centre of her, where pulsing heat gathered and demanded release. She sought more of it. It was delicious, and it consumed her, and it was not enough!

“This,” she heard herself plead. “I need this. I don’t know how – how to –”

But he knew. Somehow, he knew to wrap his hands around her waist and lift her up, until she felt solid tree bark against her back. His thigh slid once more between her legs, rock-hard and perfect. His hands guided her hips over him while he kissed her neck. Then he bent his head, took the laces at the front of her tunic between his teeth and pulled them open, until her breasts spilled against his hot, waiting mouth. He knew things, _did_ things that defied coherent thought. Sharp teeth pulled softly at one nipple, then his tongue lathered it in glorious heat, and pleasure sliced through her like a blade.

He managed to make her return inside her own body with such violent force that each new sensation rushed under her skin like a firestorm. Shocking, wanton noises tore from Marianne's mouth. Then, as if to prove a point, one of Bhaltair’s hands slipped inside her breeches.

Nothing could have prepared her for such an onslaught of lust. Blood rushed to her face when she felt how wet she was, how easily his fingers glided along swollen, sensitive flesh. Bhaltair whispered something in her ear that felt like another caress. He swallowed her moans in a ravenous kiss while his long fingers slowly spread her wetness everywhere. His lips and teeth and tongue toyed with her mouth, then descended on her breasts once again. Shameful sweetness shot from her nipples all the way between her legs. There, his fingertips ghosted over her delicate inner lips, dipped between them briefly, but never stayed in the same place too long. He played, and teased, and learned her body. She grasped his shoulders for support, opened her mouth to say something, _anything_ to make him understand… But her voice died in her throat when he began rubbing perfect, lazy circles around the stiff pearls of her clitoris. The drumming in her ears was deafening. His scent, his hands on her, all of it rippled in waves of lust, until her hips took a rhythm of their own against his hand, and her lips closed over his throat. His taste against her tongue only made her wetter, and pulled her towards him, towards something evil and glorious. Her skin felt too hot, too tight to contain her. Couldn’t he see that she burned? Couldn’t he feel it? Right there – _yes, like that…_ Was that her voice? _Again, please!_

Brazen pleas tumbled from her lips in breathless English, because she could not remember how to form the Fae words. The hand that supported her back slid lower and she welcomed it, wanted him deeper, wanted… _oh, please, more_! The circles around her clit tightened. Sweet pleasure shot like a current up her spine, again, and again, _faster, please!_ His other hand gripped the soft flesh of her ass, then worked its way inside her breeches. Another merciless finger slid between her legs from behind and circled her drenched opening. Marianne could do nothing but hold on to his powerful shoulders and beg incoherently. Her hips bucked out of control against his hands. Her thighs trembled, she whimpered and keened, and at long last, he took mercy on her and slid one finger inside her. Her inner muscles clamped around it and he groaned, but didn’t move – just increased the lush pressure against her clit. Somehow, it felt so much more intense than before, and Marianne heard a litany of curses roll from her own lips and mix with his groans of encouragement. But then, when she thought she could take no more, Bhaltair kissed her, and just as his tongue entered her mouth, he slid a second finger inside her.

She tried to fight against the pleasure he wrung from her body, but Bhaltair was evil, wicked, shameless… His teeth found her earlobe and tugged delicately.

“ _Trust me!”_ he whispered _,_ and it was a sinister promise, His lips found hers in the dark, he circled her clit once more, and she was lost. Her whole body seized in his grip when pleasure quaked through her. She shuddered helplessly, clenching over and over around his fingers, and when the ecstasy became unbearable, she tore her mouth from his and screamed.

Hours might have passed. Marianne couldn’t tell, didn’t even know where she was. Small aftershocks of pleasure made her tremble. It took her a moment to remember that the gentle fingertips tracing circles along her spine belonged to Bhaltair. A whirlwind of unwelcome thoughts immediately assaulted her, like a floodgate bursting in her pleasure-muddled mind. She tried to wiggle free, but Bhaltair’s arms tightened around her.

“Stay for a moment.” The words were a raw hiss wrung from his throat.

But she wouldn’t stay. Couldn’t. When she tried to free herself again, Bhaltair immediately let her go. With the shield of his body gone, the tree trunk behind Marianne was her only support. The night’s chill cut through her damp clothes. Whatever instinct had been guiding her before, whatever drive had brought her into this madness, was completely gone. All that remained was a deranged woman who led men into temptation, then murdered them and fornicated with others immediately after. Marianne refused to meet Bhaltair's eyes and stared at her own feet instead. Something glittered in the grass between them – a piece of jewellery. A bracelet. Marianne bent to pick it up, but winced when it singed her skin with frost.

“What the…”

“It’s mine,” muttered Bhaltair. “Must have... slipped off.”

He didn’t need to explain. The bracelet was made of white fabric, braided with a lock of silky, silver-blond hair. Only one woman could have given it to him. Fury and horror twisted in Marianne’s chest, threatening to erupt. She tried to say something, but was not even able to draw a breath around the lump that burned in her throat. Bhaltair reached for her, but she did not let him touch her. Instead, she ran to her _eithre_ and pounced on its back. The bird understood her intention and took off.

“Marianne! Wait, Marianne!”

But she ignored his screams. He might be able to fly faster than an _eithre_ , but she would not let him get near her. Not when her eyes were burning, not when her chest was splitting with pain, not when her craving for him grew with each breath, even as wetness throbbed shamefully between her legs. What had she done? What had she forced him into? A familiar voice rang clear inside Marianne's head, and she was helpless to stop it. _You asked for it!,_  it chided without pity. _You wanted it, my little buttercup! You deserve all you’re getting!_

With tears streaming down her face, Marianne flew away from the Citadel until the mist swallowed her.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

Morning came with frosty fog and no sign of Marianne.

Bhaltair was in a mood to tear down Trakea Citadel brick by brick. He’d looked for her in the blasted, unending forest until the night sky turned a pale grey. He’d screamed his throat raw shouting her name, only to hear his own voice echo back over the mountains in mockery. The sun had just risen behind the clouds to the east when he snuck back into the Citadel and collapsed in his bed. Bhaltair's sanity was being tested and damn him, but he was close to losing the last of it. The spark of Marianne’s first hesitant kiss had blazed into a firestorm, and now he hungered for her with a vengeance. She was in his blood, and a dark, filthy part of him demanded revenge. He’d screamed her name in fear all night long – it was only fair to make her scream his in pleasure. It was only fair to lick her for hours, until she lost her mind, and to have her ride him, and to carry her scratches and bite marks like badges of honour. Longing warred with disgust at his unbridled lust, and with rage at the mere thought that a Volkolak might have touched her.

If Boril had attempted to force himself on any unwilling Tengri, he would have been sentenced to death within the day. It was a law they abided without fail – the Kagan himself would have hunted the offender down and arranged for the victim to get justice. But a human was fair game, like a toy to be tossed around until it could no longer survive. Bhaltair’s only regret was that he’d never have the chance to cause the bastard some pain for daring to go near Marianne. Instead, in her own glorious way, she’d saved him the trouble. Her first kill was an enemy to be reckoned with, and Bhaltair was exceptionally proud. His gorgeous, sensual human was fearless, and strong, and bloody capable. It was only the knowledge that she could take care of herself that stopped him from descending into madness. Once he found her… Bhaltair did not dare let himself think that far ahead. He might lose his temper, scare her off, or worse still – he might lose control over himself, as he had the second he’d felt her whimper in his mouth. He should never have allowed her to leave his embrace. He should have vanquished every shadow of doubt that dwelled in her eyes, slaughtered every demon that would dare make her run from him. He should have…

He should have never let it get that far.

She’d just killed someone. She’d been upset, frightened. She’d wanted – what? Physical comfort? Reassurance? Forgiveness? And he’d gone off and backed her up against a tree, like a fucking animal, and urged her to succumb to his need. And what could she possibly think of him, a dishonourable bastard who would have her in the forest like a ruffian and betray the trust of his betrothed? What would she think of herself for wanting him? He should have stopped it. He should have ignored the glorious beat of familiar drums in his ears, the pounding of his heart, the magnificent feeling of _rightness_ when she came in his arms so beautifully... Preposterous! What a ridiculous notion – that Marianne De Lacy, the Lady Quickblade, would come to him with a kiss and he would refuse to indulge her. He’d rather cut off his own wings. She could leash him, lock him up in a cell and only take him out when she needed to use him for her pleasure – he’d happily oblige, besotted fool that he was.

It was with such thoughts that the Bog King surrendered to exhaustion. He needed to focus, to prepare for the damned Grand Council meeting, to protect the peace at any cost. A knock on the door stirred him from his restless sleep after a time, but he did not make an effort to rise and mumbled an irritable _come in_. And suddenly, she was there. He smelled _her_ , smelled the fire in her before she even touched him. Her beautiful dark eyes, her lush lips, her murmured apologies and explanations… Bhaltair swallowed her words in a kiss, along with her fear, and her hesitation, and anything else that she might try to put between them. He drew her into his arms, and divested her of the flimsy tunic that separated her skin from his tongue. His revenge was delivered methodically and without mercy, until she shattered against his mouth, and shook in his arms, and begged for something she couldn’t even name. But he knew exactly what she wanted: to be taken, to be fucked, to forget everything but the white-hot pleasure of his touch. It was sweet agony when he moved inside her, slow and deliberate, and the gentle pressure of his fingers against her clitoris drew the most beautiful sounds from her parted lips. _I want you_ she whispered against his lips. _Don’t hold back,_ he urged, and she obliged him, so perfect in his arms. He whispered filth in her ear, slowly took her just a tad closer to the edge with each thrust, and her broken cry of defeat was his triumph, and he held her close when she shuddered and moaned his name –

Everything went black.

Suddenly, it was incredibly cold. He was alone and… bound, unable to move. _What happened?_ Bhaltair opened his eyes but only saw thick, unyielding darkness. He blinked against it, but there was nothing to see. Marianne was gone, her heat evaporated along with the vivid dream, and thick frost spread over his wings, until he could barely even twitch. The Bog King tried to struggle against it, but his wrists were firmly bound, ice cutting into his skin. When he shouted for help, his voice came out as a feeble whisper. He tried to twist, to get free, but it was useless. The darkness around him was so thick and cold that it seeped into his eyes and flooded his lungs. Freezing panic began to set in the pit of his stomach, locking all his joints in place.

“Help!” he whined helplessly, barely audible. “Help me!”

_Who are you?_

The unfamiliar voice echoed around him, but there was no one there. Just a vast expanse of dark, cold nothing. Bhaltair strained his eyes against it. After a moment, he noticed a tiny light flickering somewhere in the distance, like the ghost of a candle flame.

_Are you Saint George?_

“Who’s there? Where am I?” asked the Bog King, far too quiet to be heard.

 _I am lost._  

The strange voice sounded distant, but the flickering light seemed to grow brighter. Bhaltair could almost distinguish a shape within the glow, but it was far too dark to know for certain.

“Lost? Where are you? What is this place?”

_I was looking for my sister. Have you seen her? You were supposed to protect her._

“Your – sister?”

The light wasn’t growing brighter – it was coming closer. There was definitely a shape there, someone walking towards him… The Bog King gaped in shock as the small form emerged slowly from the darkness and solidified before his eyes.

It was a child. A waif of a girl, in fact, with blond hair to her waist. She couldn’t have been much older than ten, but her eyes were a bright, azure blue. Light seemed to emanate from her, warm and pleasant like sunshine.

“Oh...” she sighed, disappointed. “You are not Saint George. But your wings are very pretty. Who are you?”

“I am the Bog King. Who are you?”

“Are you a Scotsman? You sound like a Scotsman. Roland says that Scotsmen are dangerous, but you don’t seem dangerous.”

She sounded as though she hadn’t even heard him. The babbling of her clear voice was a pleasant distraction from the freezing cold, but Bhaltair needed her to listen to him.

“Who is Roland?” he asked.

“Roland is my fiancé,” she said, though it might have just been a continuation of her monologue. “He is the most handsome man in all of England. We are to be married in a fortnight.”

“Married? You’re a child!”

“I am not a child!” snapped the girl. “I am in my thirteenth year!”

So she did hear him. She stomped her foot, which he found absurdly amusing. But then she pursed her lips and frowned in a way that seemed maddeningly familiar. Bhaltair took a long look at the girl. She was clutching something in her tiny hand – a necklace of some sort, made of polished jade beads. There was something about the oval of her face and her shapeless, blue kirtle that gnawed at him. It was maddening. He was so very cold that his mind refused to work properly.

“Can you help me with the bindings?” asked Bhaltair, hoping that the warmth of the girl’s presence would do something for the ice that tightened around his wrists and grew in his chest.

“I can’t,” she said, chagrined. “I can’t touch anything here, in the dream.”

“In the dream? That’s where we are – a dream?”

“You should ask my sister to help you,” suggested the girl, reverting back to her babbling. “She’ll know what to do. She always knows what to do. She has swords, you know, and she wears armour, like a knight.”

“Where is your sister?”

“I don’t know. I was with her only a minute ago. She was crying, but when I tried to comfort her, she ran off. I don’t know what happened – I was running after her, but then I was here. I don’t like it here.”

“Neither do I,” agreed Bhaltair. The girl’s large, bright eyes scanned him with keen curiosity, until he felt compelled to speak, elst he crack under her inspection. “Are you scared of the dark?”

“No,” she said firmly. “But I am scared of the monsters. They are hiding here.”

“What monsters? Where are they hiding?”

“In the dark. They like the dark. I need to find Marianne. She will protect us.”    

“Marianne?” Pieces slowly clicked into place and Bhaltair gasped. “You… Marianne is your sister, isn’t she? You said you just saw her! Where is she? You have to tell me! Where is she?”

The chains that bound him jangled loudly. The girl seemed startled by his sudden vehemence and took a cautious step away.

“Why do you wish to know?” she asked suspiciously. There was so much of Marianne in her intense gaze that the Bog King wondered how he hadn’t noticed the resemblance immediately.

“She is in danger!” he insisted. “She’s alone, in a very dark forest, with wolves and all sorts of beasts out to get her. You have to tell me where she is!”

“She is not in the forest anymore,” said the girl, as if it was blindingly obvious. “And she is not in danger. You are.”

“Then where is she?” growled Bhaltair. The shackles rattled viciously when he pulled on them. Fear coloured the girl’s face and she slowly stepped away from him.

“Wait!” he cried. “Wait – Tell me! Where is Marianne! Wait!”

But the girl’s eyes were large with terror as she backed away. In a moment that seemed endless, Bhaltair finally realised that she was staring not at him, but rather at something behind him. Whatever it was, it had frightened her to death.

“Run!” he shouted. “Get away now! RUN!”

The blond girl darted off into the darkness with a blood-curdling scream. Bhaltair tried to look behind him, to fight... but it was too late. An ice-cold hand wrapped around his throat and someone shoved a blade deep between his ribs...

He woke with a scream. His nightmare was immediately forgotten.

Bhaltair got up on shaky feet and went to the open window, where crisp air washed over his face. Sticky, cold sweat dripped down his back, but he ignored the stench of fear that clung to his skin and tried to focus. As hard as he tried, he could not bring himself to recall why he’d woken up so frightened, or so bloody cold. A pounding headache threatened to split his skull in half, growing more vicious each second. Worst of all, his memories of Marianne remained, like a dark undercurrent that stirred beneath thick ice.

The Bog King swore and pushed himself off the wall. He had no time to dwell on his nightmares – the Council was about to meet soon, and he had his people to think of. No Fae had ever appeared before the Tengri Grand Council, least of all with such an outrageous plea. It was a pivotal moment for all of them, and he was not about to mess it up because he couldn’t control himself. The Bog King grit his teeth through the pain in his head, dressed rapidly and flew out of his chambers. A persistent chill seeped all the way to his bones. The ridiculous ceremonial robes he was wearing swept around his ankles and offered no protection from the cold, but he had no choice. Silvana had insisted.

 _Silvana_.

Bhaltair cursed himself repeatedly in every language he knew. His fiancée, who had confessed her love for him not a week ago, would be facing the Grand Council to defend their cause. As a show of gratitude, he had cheated on her and betrayed her trust, even as he wore her engagement band around his wrist. He was a disgrace. But he would fix it all somehow, after he found Marianne. He’d confess everything to Silvana and offer whatever apology he could, and… what? Break off their engagement? It would deal a serious blow to the relations between Fae and Tengri, but he would have to find a way to mend them somehow. He was the King – it was his job to maintain the peace, whatever the cost. But he simply couldn’t marry Silvana when he was so obsessed with Marianne… could he?

The Bog King tried to force his thoughts away from Marianne. It would only make thing worse, especially when the memory of her heated touch still lingered on his skin. The longing simply refused to cloy, and he wondered whether it had always been like this. Perhaps he had somehow learned to live with the searing lust, expect somehow he'd forgotten how to manage it in the past few weeks. Concentrating on keeping his facial expression in check, Bhaltair approached the ceremonial chamber. His heart pounded. A crowd had already begun to gather outside: Tengri and Fae of all factions, all of them whispering in small groups and awaiting the historical event that was about to take place before their eyes. Bhaltair responded politely to a number of greetings, though he was unable to tell who they came from. He made his way to the Fae delegation, intending to ask his warriors against all hope and rational though whether they had seen Marianne. It would be foolish – she wouldn’t have compromised their cover by involving them in the events of the night. But he held onto hope, like an idiot…

Except… it was no longer necessary.

_She was right there._

The Bog King stalled. His heart leapt wildly, like a caged bird in his chest. He did not dare believe that she genuinely stood before him. But when she turned…

The sight of her was like a kick to the stomach. Her eyes widened briefly, then narrowed into a glare that cut him like a knife. Relief knocked the air from Bhaltair’s lungs. Marianne seemed pale and harrowed, but the stoic line of her lips was a sword raised in warning. It could not be any more obvious that she wanted to be as far away from him as possible. But he Bog King’s foolish heart soared nonetheless, because she was alive, and she was back. Fuck his stupid visions, and all those images of pleading eyes and whispered promises. That was not his Marianne. _His_ Marianne had eyes like daggers, and was fiercely loyal, and did not stand for sentimental nonsense. He’d kill a thousand Volkolak and bury a thousand more just to see her glare at him like that each and every day, for as long as he lived. She must have known that her absence would have been noticed at such an important gathering. She must have wanted to prevent any further trouble, to help him keep the peace, keep them all safe. She wouldn't have come back for him. It didn’t matter either way. She was the most singularly astounding woman he had ever met in his miserable life, and he would promote her to Knight-Captain, as soon as they were out of this bloody mess.

It was with deliberate physical effort that the Bog King looked away from Marianne. Thankfully, a guard appeared from somewhere and urged everyone inside the ceremonial chamber. Hushed whispers buzzed all over the room as the guests made their way around their seats, ushered by silent, efficient servants. Nervous anticipation trembled in the air. Bhaltair took his place at the front, where he faced the imposing thrones of the five Tengri Councillors, presently empty. He quickly scanned the room to locate his warriors. Although he watched her like a hawk, Marianne did not as much as glance in his general direction. Rattled, Bhaltair turned away and once again tried to reign in his longing for her. The chill that seeped under his skin helped somewhat, and he decided to speak to her later, even if it meant disgracing himself in front of the entire Citadel. He had to tell her something important, something to do with a little girl –

“Ah, Lady Marianne, it is good to see you. I missed you at the banquet last night.”

Bhaltair’s heart stopped cold. He did not need to turn and look to recognise the voice – it was Vera, future Kagan of the Allied Volkolak Clans, daughter of a Councillor, sister of a dead man whose body rotted in the bottom of a river. The Bog King felt the blood drain from his face, but did not dare look or move a muscle.

“I am sorry I was not able to attend, Lady Vera. I was unwell. I do hope it was an enjoyable evening.”

Marianne’s voice was even, polite and perfectly measured. There was not even a trace of fear in it. It was a thing of beauty.

“Oh, that is unfortunate!” replied Vera. “I do recall seeing you in the company of my brother. It was not his presence that made you unwell, I hope. He is known to have that effect.”

“Of course not, my lady. Lord Boril was kind enough to accompany me to my room and fetch a Healer.”

She lied through her teeth like she was made for it. Fuck Knight-Captain – he’d make her bloody General!

“Is that where my brother is now? He has been delayed, it seems,” said Vera.

“I am afraid I don’t know, my lady. I have not seen Lord Boril since last night.”

“And what was the cause of your ill health, if I may ask?”

“Lady Marianne was poorly affected by the change in elevation,” interjected Lauchlain, his voice ringing with a Healer’s authority. “It is a common problem among Sidhe. She was confined to her room until this morning on my orders, I’m afraid.”

Vera did not dare question the Healer – it would have been a profound display of disrespect on her part. She made some snide comment about the delicate constitution of Sidhe, and then fell silent. Bhaltair quietly rejoiced. He dared a glance back at Marianne, but she simply threw another blistering glare his way and pointedly avoided his eyes. In that moment, Bhaltair wanted nothing more than to take her by the hand and run away from the fucking Citadel, until the rest of the world just bloody imploded and there was nothing left but the two of them. But it was a hopeless fantasy that shattered when the large doors of the ceremonial chamber burst open and the Councillors walked in.

There was no turning back now. 

Kagan Yaruslav was the first to enter. His face bore a smug grin, as usual, and he wore a sash bearing the insignia of the Allied Volkolak Clans over his elaborate Council regalia. There was undeniable pride in his step, a confidence that was both threatening and awe-inspiring. To Bhaltair’s relief, Yaruslav did not look like a man who knew his son was dead. But that particular mess would have to wait, because a moment after Yaruslav stood in front of his throne, the enormous doors opened again and the three Zmey Grand Councillors made their entrance. Stunned silence fell upon the room as all eyes turned to them.

Bhaltair did not succeed at fully suppressing his childish excitement at seeing Zmey once again. As a boy, he’d pestered his parents with endless requests for stories of the mighty creatures. His father had assured young Bhaltair time and time again that there was no trace of Zmey in their blood, even though they both had wings. That knowledge never stopped the little Bog Prince from pretending to be a great and powerful Zmey, bumbling gracelessly about Arisaig Keep and breathing imaginary fire. And now, fully grown and in the peak of his strength, Bhaltair knew that he would never be a match for the titans of the skies. Their wings could easily eclipse the sun.

The Zmey Grand Councillors moved with the lethal grace of those who were aware of their powers and chose not to unleash them out of sheer benevolence. It was clear that they shared a family connection. The two women and the man walking between them all had hair the colour of fire and eyes like lightning. Up close, their pupils would be oblong, oval slits and their skin would have a sleek, serpentine texture. In their True Form they would be glorious and terrifying to behold. Bhaltair had seen a Zmey in flight once, on his coronation day. It remained the most profoundly humbling experience of his life.

The central three thrones were soon occupied by the Zmey Grand Councillors. Yaruslav respectfully waited for them before taking his own place to their right. The throne on the left-hand side remained empty, but neither of the Councillors paid any attention or commented on the absence of the fifth Councillor. The male Zmey - Ognyan, as Bhaltair recalled – exchanged whispers with his sisters and stood up. Silent reverence fell over the room. 

“We serve Pagganeè Peacebringer, Daughter of The Sky, One Who Sees Beyond," recited the Zmey in a booming voice. "In Her name, we vow to champion the just, Heal the hurt, tame the furious and honour the wise, for as long as She Sleeps.”

“For as long as She Sleeps,” echoed his sisters in unison.

Their words seemed more of a threat than an oath of service, but Bhaltair did not dwell on that. Tengri liked their ceremonies and rituals. With the recitation complete, Zmey Ognyan sat back in his throne and gestured to the guards at the door. They crossed their ceremonial spears in front of it, preventing anyone from entering into the main chamber. Once they were ready, Zmey Ognyan’s voice thundered across the Citadel once again.

“Vila Silvana, do you vow to uphold the principles of the Grand Council and to honour the One we Serve?”

“I vow it, as long as She Sleeps.”

“As long as She Sleeps,” echoed the Zmey sisters.

“You may enter.” 

The guards removed their spears from the door and Silvana slowly stepped into the room, gliding in like a ray of moonlight. The merciless glory of her beauty enchanted the Bog King completely. Nothing could have compared with the magnificent, cool tranquility that spread like a gentle caress over his skin. Her ethereal presence was a soothing breeze, stripping his mind bare of each and every worry that tormented him. His eyes could only see her, his thoughts filled with memories of her silky touch, her perfect, delicate kisses… He could feel her on his skin, as if her slender fingers were still wrapped around his wrists, like they had been in his bed. An overwhelming urge to crawl to her on his hands and knees and kiss her feet in worship nearly forced him off his seat. Had he truly wasted an entire night in pointless worry, when he could have been in her company? When she would have welcomed him in her bed? He was a fool. Silvana was the most beautiful woman in existence. Nothing else mattered, no one else. Only her. His one and only. His Queen.

Silvana walked in front of the Councillors and knelt, bowing her head in a gesture of humility. Silver-blond hair spilled on either side of her face. Bhaltair recalled their time together, the way she'd moved over him, her glorious hair like a curtain around him when she bent down for a kiss… Had he ever felt so completely in love before? Had another woman ever been so perfect? A half-formed nagging thought tickled the edges of his mind, but he could not bring himself to care.

“Honoured Councillors,” Silvana’s crystal voice resonated in every corner of the room. “It is with a grave heart that I come before you today. I bring to you a plea on behalf of all my people and our allies, the Fae. A plea to awaken Queen Pagganeè Peacebringer, Daughter of The Sky, One Who Sees Beyond.”           

“On what grounds do you make such a demand, my lady Vila?” asked Zmey Ognyan.

“Over the past several years, the Samodivi repeatedly became victims of vicious, brutal attacks. I lost ten of my sisters, each and every one of them a Healer. None of our other Healers could identify the killers - it was as if a shadow had been cast over them, defying the Healers' Gift. Furthermore, the Fae of Boglach Dorch have also suffered losses at the hands of this malice. King Bhaltair himself is present here today to support my plea. We fear that there is dark sorcery at hand, dangerous sorcery which tampers with the Healers’ Gift and masks the perpetrators. I plead on behalf of the Samodivi and the Fae that we be granted permission to consult the Healer Queen on this matter. Whoever directs these attacks must be stopped, before any more innocent lives are lost!”

Hushed whispers and groans of surprise traveled like wildfire across the room. Bhaltair itched to silence them all.

“That is a very outlandish plea, Lady Silvana,” gasped Kagan Yaruslav with a dramatic raise of his eyebrows. “A demand to awaken the Healer Queen has not been issued before, not for a thousand years. I must urge you to reconsider your position. You know as well as I do that waking the Zmey from their Sleep without good cause is considered a sacrilege.”

“You would urge me to reconsider? Are the losses we have suffered not a good enough cause?” asked Silvana. 

“With all due respect to the King of Boglach Dorch and his people, this sounds to me like a matter that is not significant enough to warrant such drastic action,” explained Yaruslav sweetly. “Several deaths over a few years pose no unusual threat. Death comes for us all, one way or another. And if those deaths were truly murders, as you claim, then it should be a matter for you, as a Vila, to dedicate the time and effort to catch the murderers and punish them.”

“That is precisely what I am doing now, Kagan Yaruslav,” said Silvana calmly. Bhaltair was astonished by her composure - he would have already gutted the arrogant Volkolak.  

“Is that right?” sneered the Volkolak in question. “Because it sounds more like you are intending to waste the Grand Council’s time and resources. Maintaining order within your own domain is your responsibility, as a leader. Running to the Council and throwing a tantrum every time something goes wrong is not a sign of competency.”

“I would not expect understanding or sympathy from the Volkolak in this matter,” retorted Silvana. “It is a well-known fact that you think little of Healers because your people have been deprived of the Gift. I can't imagine you would be moved by a Healer's death.”

More shocked gasps and whispers echoed through the room. Bhaltair was furious. They were all enjoying the display, damn them, and not caring one bit for the losses she had suffered!

Yaruslav snickered.

“And I would not expect reliable evidence for committed crimes from the Samodivi,” grated Yaruslav. “Especially not from those who spend their lives dancing at banquets and shagging foreign kings.”

Bhaltair growled low in his throat. His claws extended with a fierce need to bathe in insolent Volkolak blood and protect his beloved.

“Silence, both of you!” roared Zmey Ognyan, taking control before the Bog King could act. “I will not allow this infantile bickering! Kagan Yaruslav, you dishonour the Council and our guests with your disrespect! Do not make me denounce you. Lady Silvana, I am prepared to consider your request, but I trust you have more evidence for your claims than word of mouth.”

“I do indeed. And I will present it all to the Council, but…”

She faltered and looked around the room. Her silver eyes landed on Bhaltair for a moment and he smiled reassuringly, but she did not smile back.

“Where is Councillor Zora?” she asked instead, concerned.

“The Grand Council does not wait for anyone, Lady Silvana,” said Ognyan sternly. “Lady Zora was not present when we gathered earlier. She will not be granted access now.”

“But she is the representative of my people in the Council!” Silvana seemed outraged. “Her absence is no trivial matter. Please, let me send for her!”

Yaruslav snorted in disgust.

“The Samodivi stomp their feet and make demands like children, then do not even deign to grace us with their presence? Shame that their Fae lovers got dragged into this farce,” he chided.

Bhaltair shot to his feet with his teeth bared, but once again Ognyan was faster.

“Yaruslav, I will not warn you again! One more insult and you will be thrown out of the room,” threatened the Zmey, then turned to Silvana. “My lady, the rules of the Grand Council are incredibly clear. We were given no notice of Councillor Zora’s absence, and as such, saw no reason not to begin without her.”

“I ask your permission nonetheless. She would not simply decide not to appear in the last minute! Decisions made by the Grand Council must be unanimous and this cannot be achieved without all Councillors.”

“I will thank you not to remind me how to run the Grand Council, my lady,” the Zmey said coldly. Then, after a moment’s consideration, he nodded at the two guards by the side door, sending them in search for the missing Councillor. Yaruslav muttered something under his breath and sat back on his throne. His dismissive expression was a sour reminded of why Bhaltair had always been mistrustful of the Volkolak. The Bog King recalled his coronation day with bitterness. Kagan Yaruslav had been invited to attend, and had insisted on sparring with the young Bog King. It was supposed to be nothing more than a ceremonial event, a gesture of respect from one leader to another. Yet, Yaruslav had sparred in his True Form, with all his strength and without a shred of mercy. Bhaltair’s wings still bore the scars. But he had managed to pull himself together and win against the Volkolak that day, as he would now, when the disgusting beast threatened his Queen. Determined, he stood up and addressed the room.

“Honoured Councillors, I am aware that I hold no authority here, but I beg you now for an opportunity to speak. As you rightly pointed out, the Fae have no business in Tengri affairs. But I feel that a matter which threatens our Healers concerns us all.”

He paused, expecting to be silenced. Instead, Zmey Ognyan gave him a pointed look, but gestured for him to continue.

“Our Healers are unable to use their Gift around the victims of these murderers. Supreme Archon Griselda herself could not see beyond the shadows that surrounded the murderer. What is even more frightening to me is that after attempting to investigate the wounds, the Healers are so poorly affected by the sorcery that they are not able to use their Gift again for some time. Think what this means for a moment! This is not about the Samodivi, and it is not about the Fae. This is about our Healers being robbed of their Gift! And if we do not work to put an end to this, we will only encourage the murderers to continue, and to grow stronger in the comfort of our inaction!”

There was no way to tell whether his words had helped, or made matters worse. The Councillors were completely impassive. But Silvana's adoring smile made his heart melt, and he soon forgot about anyone else. 

“Thank you for your input, King Bhaltair,” said Zmey Ognyan at last. “If what you say is true, then we do indeed have a cause for concern. However, we cannot take action until – “

“Grand Councillor! Grand Councillor!”

Someone was screeching outside the room. The panicked voice carried through the heavy doors, along with the sound of rapid footsteps against the stone floor. After a moment, one of the guards burst into the chamber and fell to his knees before the Councillors' thrones.

“Dead! Dead!” he kept wailing. “Dead! Dead!”

“What are you talking about?” snarled Zmey Ognyan. “How dare you interrupt – ”

“She’s dead, Grand Councillor!” shrieked the guard. “Lady Zora. Dead! Dead!”

Before anyone could react, Silvana was already sprinting out of the room. Bhaltair followed her immediately, blind to everything else. He ran after her across the Citadel until they reached the stately chambers of Councillor Zora. Silvana pushed past the guard at the door and flew into the room. A moment later, her terrified shriek resonated through the Citadel's halls.

The Bog King had seen this type of murder before, but it did nothing to prepare him. Councillor Zora was in her bed. Her eyes were open, and her beautiful face bore a serene expression. But the rest was… blood. So much blood, all over her dress, and the sheets, and the walls. She had been ripped open with singular ferocity, torn almost in half from her chest down to her hips. Her throat… the wound was so deep, so vicious that he could see her spine.

Cries of horror filled the room as more onlookers trickled in, but Bhaltair ignored them. Silvana had fallen to her knees by the bed and he ran to her and took her in his arms. Her slim shoulders shook and diamond-like teardrops rolled down her face, but she remained completely silent. His heart tore in half as her pain raked through him – never in his life had he felt such suffering, never had he experienced another’s sorrow as his own. He swore to himself that he would not rest until her enemies had been slain.

With considerable difficulty, Silvana stood up. She held onto Bhaltair’s arm for support and took one long look at her sister’s bloodied corpse.

“Another victim,” she muttered. “In this sacred house of peace, another one of the Tengri lays slaughtered. This must bring you great joy, Kagan Yaruslav. It was no secret that you hated her. That you hate all of us!”

Bhaltair noticed that the Councillors had all gathered in the room. For once, the Volkolak was silent. His usual smug sneer had melted away into a look of shock, and although he opened his mouth to speak, no words came out. It was Vera who replied instead of him.

“My lady, I assure you we are just as horrified by this crime as you. I am so terribly sorry that this – ”

“Sorry? Is that what you are – sorry? How considerate, lady Vera. Anything else you wish to say to your victim?”

“My victim? What are you – “

“You know exactly what!” cried Silvana. “You and your murderous dogs – you killed her! You slaughtered her, didn’t you? You killed all of them!”

“Don’t you dare!” snarled Vera. “You have no right to accuse my people without evidence!”

“Volkolak have despised us for centuries!”

“And you have despised us in turn. All of us in this Citadel have despised one another throughout our history! I understand how upset and angry you must be, but this hysterical finger-pointing is embarrassing, even for you.”

“You hate us for who we are!” Silvana screamed inconsolably, no longer bothered with keeping up appearances. “You hate us for having Healers when you don’t! You have always been jealous of us, and now you killed my sister! Who did you pay off to cover your traces with vile sorcery?”

Yaruslav barked something at Silvana. Bhaltair did not need to understand his language to know that it was a vicious insult. The Bog King bared his teeth and claws and stepped in front of his Queen, wings spread. He lived to be her shield and her sword. He existed to protect her, to obliterate anyone who would dare threaten her. And Yaruslav had it coming.

“You will watch your tongue when you address my Queen, or I will rip it out of your filthy mouth!” promised the Bog King.

“Stay the fuck out of our business, Fae King, if you know what’s good for you!” spat Vera, her eyes flashing a sharp yellow.

“ _Silence, all of you!_ ” roared Zmey Ognyan.

The effect was instant. No one dared make a sound, not when an angry Zmey was present.

“You are all a disgrace!" he continued. "Have you no respect? To squabble like barbarians when one of our own lies slaughtered in her very bed! Sisters, tend to her!”

The Zmey women silently drew the curtains around the bed, covering the mangled body from view.

“Make no mistake," promised Ognyan. "This vile desecration of our Citadel will not go unpunished. Healers, please remain to examine lady Zora's body. The rest of you, back to your chambers! No one is to leave the Citadel – if you as much as step outside the walls, I will personally come after you. This murderer will not escape our wrath and our justice!”

Bhaltair’s anger was not quelled in the slightest by the promise, and he was about to protest, but suddenly, Silvana collapsed against him. Sorrow and shock had finally taken the better of her. Bhaltair cradled her in his arms and carried her out of the room, oblivious to his warriors' concerned pleas. He wanted to kill the Volkolak and lay their severed heads at Silvana's feet . But first, he needed to ensure she was taken care of. He was her shield, and her sword. 

The next few hours passed in frantic pacing by Silvana’s bed. She would not awaken, no matter how much he begged. Bhaltair was frightened to death. At one point, a servant came by and summoned him, saying that his Healer had news of the murder. The Bog King was reluctant to leave his Queen even for a moment, but he knew that she would appreciate news of her sister upon waking. Desperate to please her in any way he could, the Bog King went to Lauchlain’s room. A strange feeling bothered him, as if a dim light was flickering at the very edge of his vision. It maddened him that he couldn't remember what it meant, but he pushed it away from his thoughts and focused on the task at hand. He had to get back to his Queen, had to protect her from the evils that lurked in the Citadel. _Her shield and her sword._

Bhaltair found Lauchlain lying in his bed, pale as a ghost, weakly sipping from a steaming mug.

“What did you find out?” asked the Bog King, irritated.

“Same as before,” said the Healer, barely above a whisper. “No murderer – just a shadow. It ran from me. I’m sorry, Sire, but – “

He lost his voice to a bout of coughing, and spat blood in a small bowl at his side.

“What else?” demanded Bhaltair impatiently. 

“The sorcery – whatever it is. It was stronger than before. Not a single Healer left standing. I convinced the Grand Councillor to let us combine our powers, but it was pointless. Several others are worse than me, but they’re being tended to.”

“And about the Lady Zora? Nothing else you can tell me?”

“Just one more thing. She was not afraid. The others were – whatever it was that killed them, they were scared to death by it. But not Lady Zora.”

“So she died peacefully – at least that will be a consolation to my Queen,” muttered Bhaltiar.

“Peacefully?” Lauchlain narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Sire, she was torn in half by a some kind of beast! There was nothing peaceful about her death. Her murderer used sorcery strong enough to knock out eight Healers! My Gift is gone, just like before. I can feel it returning very slowly, but it was ripped out of me with a force unlike anything I have ever known. This is by no means peaceful!”

Bhaltair was about to remind his subordinate about appropriate ways to address a King, but the door behind him bust open and a very distressed Halthor ran into the room.

“Oh thank fuck! You’re alive!” cried the Urisk and hurled himself towards Lauchlain. “I heard what happened, Lauch… I… Fuck, I’ll kill them, whoever they are, I promise you, I’ll kill them for you!”

The frantic Halthor knelt by the Healer’s bed and took his hand. Lauchlain looked like he was about to say something, but another coughing fit interrupted him.

“You’re alright now,” whispered Halthor soothingly, stroking Lauchlain’s hair all the way through it. “I’m here, alright? I’m here for you. I won’t leave you alone for another moment.”

“What if I need to do mysterious Halfling things?” quipped Lauchlain, wiping blood off his lips.

“Anything you need to do, I’ll be here,” declared Halthor solemnly. “I’ll look after you. I’ll put a damp cloth on your head, and bring you whatever tonics you ask, and fluff up your pillows, and tuck you in. You’ll be so sick of me fretting over you that you’ll get well, just to be rid of me.”

But Bhaltair quickly lost interest in their discussion. He felt a chilly caress spread over his skin and knew immediately that Silvana was awake. _Her sword and her shield. His Queen_. He ran to her as fast as he could, all thoughts of the Healer forgotten. And when he saw her there, awake in the enormous bed, he gasped helplessly. She was remarkable – pure, and beautiful, and so very delicate, so perfectly precious. She ought to be worshipped day and night. She ought to be on a throne.

“I am sorry for my outburst,” she murmured, and her sadness nearly tore his heart in half.

“There is nothing to apologise for, my love.”

Bhaltair stepped closer and gently placed a hand over her shoulder. She leaned into his touch and let him cradle her in his arms. It was the utmost honour she could bestow on him, the greatest privilege. That was where he belonged, her servant, her protector. It felt magnificent, felt completely –

_Wrong!_

A fiery lash whipped through him. His wings trembled with it, and he almost saw it, almost remembered what had bothered him all along… But then Silvana took his hand in hers and a gentle breeze washed away his worries, once more. She brought him such peace, such perfect tranquillity…

_Stop! Wrong!_

His Queen ran her fingers along his jaw and over his lips, her magnificent eyes searching his face.

“Where are you, my love?” she whispered.

“Right here!” proclaimed Bhaltair. “I am right here for you.”

“You say that. Yet, those who murder our people still walk free,” she said. “They sneer at us and insult us, and we can do little but cry when they take what we hold dear.”

“Don’t say that! We will find them, I promise!”

“It is too late for that. He has already escaped.”

“Who has?”

“Yaruslav’s son. Boril. He was the only one not present at the Council meeting. He murdered Zora, I know he did. I can feel it in my heart!”

No, that was not true – but why? There was something he ought to tell her –

Silvana claimed his lips. Bhaltair almost stumbled backwards, taken by surprise. 

“It was him, my love,” she muttered after a long, sweet moment, her breath ghosting over his lips. “He killed my sister, and then he escaped. His father ordered it, I am sure of it.”

There was a vague memory of a river, and of fire, and something else, something that kept him up all night, dreaming, craving…

Silvana’s next kiss felt like ice. A thick, frosty veil descended over Bhaltair’s thoughts when her lips moved over his neck, and he once again lost the tiny, fleeting spark of a memory that struggled to get his attention. But he no longer cared. How could anything matter, when his beloved was kissing him like that?

“My Queen,” it tumbled from his lips like a benediction.

Her hand wrapped around his wrist, tight, painful and ice-cold. The engagement band pressed into his skin, but he no longer felt it.

“My love,” he murmured, craving the silky darkness of her presence. The cool sensation spread from his wrist all over his skin, then surged inwards and flooded his chest. It was marvellous to surrender to it, to watch as the crystal fractals she conjured completely ensconced his mind. It was Silvana's beauty that undid him. When he finally surrendered to her, it was with sweet, serene relief. Darkness descended over him, silky and glorious. Bhaltair closed his eyes and let go, let himself float weightlessly in it, until only the mellifluous chant of Silvana's voice echoed in his ears.  

_“Yes, Bhaltair. They all did it. And now, you will kill them for me!”_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to all of you who continue to read this story and comment on it. I can't tell you how much it means to me - I can only squeal incoherently. Thank you!


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